There is no simple way to explain what it is to live inside a myth. It is not a matter of believing in legends, nor of romanticizing ancient ways. It is recognition—the slow, inexorable realization that what the ancients wrote in runes and verses was not mere story, but structure. A blueprint of existence, a cartography of the deep currents that move beneath the surface of things.

For me, it was never about seeking mythology—it found me. It wove itself into my life through the faces of strangers who were not strangers at all, but echoes of the great and ancient lines.

I have walked among the echoes of Odin, of Heimdall, of the lost and wandering Skalds who kept the memory of the world. I have met the avatars of Faerie and the bloodlines of the old Gods, the priestesses of Avalon and the shieldmaidens of the new age. I have watched the Grail appear and reappear, not as a single chalice, but as an ever-moving symbol, taking new form in the hands of those who carried its legacy without ever knowing its name.

And I have lived the bondage of the World Tree, just as I have seen the Rainbow Road.

But was that a choice, or was it a binding?

Did Odin choose to hang upon the Tree, or was he drawn by something greater, something woven into his very being? Did Heimdall choose to be the Watcher, or was he simply what he was—a guardian from birth, bound to his post by the very nature of his existence?

And what of me?

Did I choose to see the world through the eyes of myth, to trace the filaments of fate, to map the landscape of legend as it unfolded in real time? Or was it chosen for me—woven into my substance long before this lifetime, before I ever opened my eyes upon the Earth?

The Norse and Celtic Mythlines in the Mythica

To say that the Norse and Celtic stories appeared in my life would be an understatement. They did not appear—they arrived, embedded in the people I met, the places I was drawn to, the very fabric of the Mythica.

It was never just Cassandra—it was the Norn arriving at the threshold of my return from the Quest, holding space at the edge of the world in Lake Tahoe. It was never just Jesse Wynden—it was an Avalonian knight appearing as a guardian in the misted realms of my journey. It was never just Hjeron O’Sidhe—it was a Nordic King, an emissary of the Faerie lines who held the old magics in his blood.

The Mythica proved itself through this. It revealed that the myths were not locked in the past, but walking, living, breathing through the souls of those who carried their resonance. It showed me that we are expressions of something older than ourselves, that we are drawn into certain realities not by random chance, but by the gravity of our own vibrational substance.

This is why I have never been certain of free will.

For how could I believe in total agency when my path unfolded in such a way? When time and again, I found myself moving through the exact stories that mirrored the great epics, meeting the exact archetypes that fit into the old mythos, without effort, without seeking them—as if some unseen loom was weaving me into its design? I felt myself caught in the skein, in the wyrd of Fate and Fortune, unsure of what was my choice and what was not.

The Modern Myth

In such tumultuous divination, I felt bound to witnessing, yet in this there was power. The World Tree. The Rainbow Road. The hidden echoes of Sökkvabekkr. These were not abstractions—they were real. They were the very architecture of life itself, revealing the mythopoetic nature of reality through the land, the characters, and the synchronicities that bound them together.

This was not a metaphor. It was lived experience. The Tree of Synchronicities did not simply exist as an esoteric concept; it was the landscape of my life, unfolding like a saga, with its branches extending through time and space. It spoke to my joining Hjeron O’Sidhe’s Mythmaker troupe, nestled in the heart of Canada near the Valhalla Mountains, where the echoes of Odin’s hall whispered through the valleys.

It was in the pull of the unseen that led me to Vikingsholm, drawn down to the shoreline of Lake Tahoe not by logic, but by the deep drumbeat of synchronicity, where the symbols of the Norse world emerged around me like a long-buried memory surfacing from the depths of the Akasha.

It was there in the Faerie realms of Oregon, in the clans of storytellers and mystics who lived as modern echoes of the old world, wielding song and ritual in ways that felt more ancient than the trees that surrounded them. It was in the essence of Sökkvabekkr manifest in the libraries upon the surface of what was, where I found sanctuary among books that were not just ink and paper, but gateways into the living memory of the world herself.

And above all, it was the Rainbow Road, not just a poetic idea, but the very structure of perception itself. It was the lens through which I saw the world, the prismatic bridge of consciousness, shifting between realms as the colors of our awareness wove together with the patterns of fate. Yet that Road did not exist in isolation—it was the Bifröst upon the branches of the World Tree, the spectrum of experience laid upon the architecture of synchronicity.

For the World Tree was the foundation, the axis of being, its roots tangled in the deep, unseen currents of wyrd while its branches stretched into the many fractals of potential reality. And the Rainbow Road? It was the way we traveled across those branches, the shifting chromatic flow of consciousness that determined which realm of myth and meaning we would inhabit.

To step upon the Road was to step into an awareness of the deeper structure of reality—to recognize that our movement through the world was not random, but part of a vast interwoven geometry, where the myths and legends of old were not gone, but playing out through us, in living form.

The world I had known was merely the surface; beneath it, the Great Story played out, hidden between the raindrops of the common perspective.

And on that Road, upon those branches, I did not simply observe myth—I lived it.

This was the Mythica—the truth of myth made real. A living, breathing world of legend unfolding in the synchronicities of the Tree upon the Rainbow Road.

The Rainbow Road and the Axis of Sight

Perhaps this is why Heimdall’s mythos called to me—why I recognized him, not as a distant legend, but as a pattern that had shaped my own being.

Heimdall, the Watcher at the Bifröst, the guardian of the Rainbow Bridge—the great passage between realms. In my own way, I had lived this. The prismatic road was not just a metaphor to me—it was a reality.

The chakras. The colors. The shifting worlds of perception and manifestation. These were the roads I had walked, literally and energetically. I saw the way in which the vibrational state of the self determined the reality one encountered, how one’s position on the Rainbow Road dictated which realm they would step into.

But I was not Odin. I was not Heimdall. I was something else.

I was a child of Saga, bound to Story itself. I was something between the Norns and the Skalds, a remnant of what once was in the golden realms of Asgard, somehow incarnate in the mortal plane. And I was not alone—others moved through the mythlines with me, scattered across time and space, sharing the same vibrational substance through layers of memory and forget.

Bound to the Myth, Seeking the Exit

What does one do with this knowledge? What does one do when they realize their life has been a living myth—but one that carries the weight of Fate, rather than the lightness of choice?

For years, I have wrestled with this.

I have tried to define what it means to be bound to a myth, to live inside a legend that does not let go. I have fought against the reality of my own vision, struggled with the implications of being able to see the web of synchronicity but not always control its movement.

And yet, there is some solace in mapping it.

This, in the end, is why I created Into the Mythica. It was not just a desire to tell stories—it was a desperate need to make sense of my own passage.

I do not know if I am bound like Odin. I do not know if the threads of my geas will ever loosen, or if they are simply woven too deep into my being.

But I do know this:

The Saga continues.