The sky is blue. The grass is green. Birds chirp in the treetops, but not in any meaningful way. They simply do, because they are birds. Humans go about their daily lives, working, eating, sleeping, talking. Through all these things, they tell themselves stories. But none of these stories are true.
Except… a few.
”She saved them from the fire, yes, but they still lost everything. Tragic, really. They wanted to thank her anyway, but no one seemed to know who she was or where she went.”
”Have you heard of the old lady who lives at the lighthouse? They say she used to be a witch!”
”It’s almost like she can talk to animals. But…that can’t be true, can it?”
”I know it sounds crazy, but I know what I saw! The guy said he had found something, and he had – a ghost, clear as day, vanished before my eyes! Well, no, I don’t have proof…”
Did you ever meet someone with that many stories to tell?
The Sky is blue. And inky black, and midnight-purple, and clear, and grey and full of stars. It is high and vast and endless. It is all the things a sky is, was, will be and can ever be, all at once. The Grass is green. And brown, and parched, and lush and full of flowers. It is freshly mown, and overgrown, and where the insects creep. It is all the things grass is, was, will be and can ever be, for now and for eternity. The Birds sing in The Treetops, because that is what they do, and what they do defines them. Nothing makes its home here; everything simply is.
In this eternal place, stories weave the fabric of reality, and every single one of them is true.