"True Believer" – September 3rd, 1975

The dim glow of the library enveloped Peter and Calliope as they settled into their usual corner. The shelves around them, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, stood as silent witnesses to the unfolding dialogue. Calliope, quill in hand, looked at Peter with an inquisitive expression, ready to capture his story.

Peter took a deep breath, his eyes reflecting the memories of his youth. “In my early years, I often visited the library. It was a sanctuary for me, a place where I could escape the chaos of the outside world and immerse myself in the magic of stories.”

Calliope’s quill hovered above the parchment. “Tell me more about those visits. What drew you to the library?”

Peter smiled, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. “The library was more than just a place filled with books. It was alive with a vibrational form, a presence that I came to recognize as the deva of story. I was a true believer, you see. I believed in the magic of stories with all my heart.”

Calliope’s eyes widened with curiosity. “You believed that story itself was a form beneath the forms? Can you explain what that felt like?”

Peter nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yes, exactly. To me, story was more than just words on a page. It was a living presence, a kind of essence that permeated the very air of the library. When I was there, I could feel her – the deva of story – moving through the shelves, whispering through the pages. She was a form beneath the forms, a presence that existed beyond the physical books.”

Calliope’s quill moved swiftly, capturing his words. “How did you perceive her? What was it like to encounter this vibrational form?”

Peter’s eyes lit up with the memory. “It was like being enveloped in a warm embrace of light and energy. When I read the stories, it felt as though I was connecting with something much deeper, something ancient and wise. The deva of story would guide me, showing me the hidden layers of meaning and the interconnectedness of all narratives.”

Calliope paused, her quill resting on the parchment. “Did this belief shape your perspective on stories and their importance?”

“Absolutely,” Peter replied, his voice filled with conviction. “I saw stories as more than just entertainment. They were sacred, a bridge between worlds, carrying the essence of the divine. Through them, I felt I could understand the deeper truths of existence. Story herself was a teacher, a guide who revealed the hidden patterns of the universe.”

Calliope’s eyes sparkled with fascination. “So, in a way, the deva of story was your mentor, guiding you on your path?”

Peter nodded, a serene smile on his face. “Yes, she was. Through her, I learned to see the world in layers, to recognize the vibrational patterns that underlie all of creation. Each story was a thread in the grand tapestry of life, and I was determined to weave my own thread with intention and awareness.”

Calliope’s quill resumed its dance, capturing the essence of his journey. “Did you ever feel isolated in your beliefs, considering how different your perspective was from those around you?”

Peter’s expression grew pensive. “All the time. Most people couldn’t see what I saw, couldn’t feel the presence of story as I did. But I found solace in the library, in the company of the deva of story. She reassured me that my path, though unique, was valid and meaningful.”

“Was this something you realized then, or did it happen gradually?”

“Both, and neither.” he said. “It was something that came and went in my awareness, flickering in and out with what I would later discover was the great challenge of being me.”

Calliope looked at Peter with admiration. “It sounds like the library and the deva of story were crucial in shaping your understanding of the world and your place in it.”

Peter’s eyes softened. “They were. The library was my sanctuary, and the deva of story was my guide. Stories would become the way I made sense of the senseless, helping me to anchor the shifting tides of consciousness and the challenges that were come. They provided a context for the content in my story, helping me to understand what I was going through.”

“For me it was the very essence of meaning, as later in life story would become the object of my devotion. The foundation for the style of magic that invoked a life of living myth. My relationship with Story is one of divine communion, and while I would come to face so many difficulties along the path, it would always be story that drove me forward – my true belief in the heroic quest and it’s noble intent.”

Calliope smiled, feeling a shimmer of light move through her form as the strength of Peter’s devotion moved across the space.

“Tell me more” she said with a smile.

“It’s all about our myth.” he said. “About what it means to live our unique Mythos in the world. To live the unique tale that is our part in the Great Story that connects us all. To live our story is the very essence of the heroic journey seen in it’s spirals, it is to embody the character we are playing and discover the essence of it’s gift to the worlds. Our story is the essence of who we are, for we are made of stories – made from the very colors of sound that move between the stars and the soil. For me story became an anchorpoint for my very sense of the self, of what people call the ‘ego’ and it’s carousel of costumes between the pages.”

“So beautiful” said Calliope, her magical quill poised to capture his words. “What do you mean by our mythos?”

He moved between the bookshelves them, adjusting a few of the tomes. Glittering dust fell from them, forming into strange letters on the floor.

“I’ve heard people speak of myths as false things.”

“Myths are more real than people. All mortal lives are a myth, for the ego itself is an illusion. A thing of layered colors and gravities of belief held together by the karmic threads of fate and fortune. Yet this realization can be a beautiful thing.” he said, smiling.

Her eyes brightened. “THIS I have to hear.”

“Excited?” he grinned.

“I AM.” she exclaimed. “I feel like this is the very heart of the Mythica.”

“Being a myth is a beautiful thing.” he said. “For it means we are mythology itself.” said Peter. “Every story, every tale and adventure is about an aspect of ourselves. About the elements of human existence across the octaves of it’s potential. It means we CAN live in a more magical world, for we are magic itself. The mystery and mythology that strings it’s characters in the mortal plane.”

“There’s an idea I’ve heard in the world that we choose our missions. That on some level of conscious agency we make a decision to take on a certain karmic pattern or devote ourselves to a cause, to something noble whose purposing lay far beyond what we encounter in one thread of life or another. It’s a powerful thing, this idea. The gravity of it,” Peter continued, his eyes meeting Calliope’s. “For me, this was story. It was the living of the heroic quest and facing the challenges along it’s length to live a true story.