In our hearts there are many worlds. These worlds are as real as the one we wake to. Long ago before we could remember, each and everyone one of us was given a world of our own, a dream world that is our own to cherish and nurture. A world that was born with us and a world that will exist for us long after our living is done. There are the worlds too that exist in our heads, that are made up of lies and fictions, but the world of the heart, only appears to be a lie, until it can be revealed as true. These worlds are made of the same basic stuff, imagination and fantasy, the difference between them, is the world of the heart is made of wishes, reflections of the soul, and our dreams, but the worlds of the head, are made up of lies, and are as fretful the soul’s shadows.
In the human world, there is a difference between a world wild in imagination, such as that we might possess as a child, and a world that exists in the shadow of reality, which come to us as idle playthings conjured to deceive. It is the rare few that are able to know the difference between the wildness in their hearts and the complications of their heads. In the waking world of this reality, all fictions are lies, but that is not exactly true, there is a difference between fantasies that are faithful and pure in the heart, and fantasies that hold other allegiances.
Time passes, and dreams are forgotten – so too are the wonderful worlds that were once born and cleaved from them. We learned to dream asleep, rather than awake and we began to learn things we were never taught, lies to keep the worlds hidden and separate from the ‘real world’. The lie we are told and perform every day is that the wild worlds of pure imagination were shadow worlds, and that the beings that dwelt there, were children of idle minds – but that is not true. The real world itself was also first dreamt into existence, and then it was dreamt again, and again and again and again. The world has been dreamt now so many times, it is no longer known who dreamt up the world in which we are living now.
What we do know is that everything in this world was once imagined, and then it was reimagined over and over, just like the world itself, whether it is your city’s skyline, your favourite songs, the very important equations that make things work, your favourite characters in your favourite movies, even that thing she did with her hair – everything new has taken some leap from the imagination the alchemised with courage in the real world to make it appear, to make it happen, to realise it from a dream. The worlds of our imaginations, both mirror and shadow and our waking worlds are forever entwined.
When we are visited from the world of imagination in the form of inspiration, it is said we are visited by the muse, the essence of imagination, manifest through the fog of the many moments of confusion and clarity, to bears us our flights of fancy that lead us to our creativity. There are many muses, some of them are famous in their own rights, having featured themselves in the telling of their own stories, others remain elusive and secretive, some muses inspire many different artists who unbeknownst to them, find themselves telling the same story in different ways and for different reasons. They say that art has a life of its own, and the art that lives, through and beyond the artist, and when it comes to be first realised, there is more at play than a creativity that may be possessed, but a creativity that possesses. That force of nature is the muse. This is the story of three of them, from the world of Fantazien, a true world that lives in the heart, and all too often fades in the head.
All muses are timeless beings, they age only in the eyes of their observers, but to see them there together under the Waiting Oak tree, you would see three young women comparable in age. Dianthe was possessed of an easy charisma and spirit. She had forest green eyes and flowing red hair that was adorned with a garland of white daisies and draped over shoulders and curled loosely at the tips. She was wrapped in fine silks and frills, a pale and light blue dress that was reminiscent of something that might have been worn by a priestess to Goddess whose name has long since been forgotten. The outfit was decorated ornately with golden needlework and held together by an exquisitely etched belt that hung around her waist.
Musea was a tall and slender woman who was a little more awkward and curious by nature. Her long, wavy silver hair was distinctly adorned with blue irises and her eyes were a piercing amethyst. She wore a long pale green dress that was tied through the middle with silver threads, and held together by a golden belt, upon which rested a large book that you could imagine was either filled with arcane secrets, or the thoughts of a madwoman. If you were to look at her, she would seem to be taking your measure, the reasons for which, are for her to know.
After taking her time to pick the most extraordinary of the fruits, Aurorae sat down by the Oak tree and joined Dianthe and Musea. She seemed less interested in worldly affairs than the other two, her long golden tresses danced about her shoulders as if they were constantly being teased by tiny fairies and is adorned with a pink magic star lily bloom. Her eyes were pale blue, and she seemed to be always looking things that no one else could see, this made her seem distracted, she would rarely look you in the eye, but when she did, her otherworldly looks only put you at ease, she was overflowing with a presence in those moments, that made you feel truly seen, it is just that she rarely looks.
A Fantazien Window 