![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I'm kneeling on the muddy, silty banks of my mythpool again, waiting to catch a silverfish of an idea in my cupped hands. Sometimes, I see the whole story played out on their scales, and sometimes, it's only a glimmer on a flash of retreating tail. There are, days, like today, for instance, when I want to tip headlong into the mythpool and never come up for air, to open my mouth and let the cold, black water of the mythpool fill my lungs and stomach like embalming fluid. It's easier there, in the world I've built for myself, because I don't have to spend every minute of every day proving my right to exist. Some days, I'd like to tip into the pool and sink like a stone, Ariel in her undersea kingdom. As long as I had Sebastian the Crab, I'd be set.
People without a mythpool think the water is clear, but it's not. Not at all. It's black as night, and all you can see are black shadows moving under the surface. You've got to fish blind. Some folks use a net to trawl, but when it comes down to it, you've got to plunge your hand into that water and grope the darkness for your catch. Sometimes, you come up with a pretty silverfish, with bright eyes and a friendly, gawping mouth. Sometimes all you get is mud and reeds. And sometimes, you stick your hand in there and pull up something nasty, noisome and gelatinous, born out of Cthulu's rancid, tentacled cooze. And it doesn't matter if you throw it back. You can, of course, but it doesn't divest you of ownership. It's still down there, in the deeps of your mythpool, and sooner or later, it'll wrap its tentacles around your hand, a child reaching for its mother, and all you can do is pull it out and let it breathe.
I've pulled up one of those nasty catches a few times in the last year, but I've always thrown it back. It deals with dangerous subjects and says things about me that I'm not sure I'm ready to hear. But it's come to the bank and touched my hand more and more often, and soon, it will demand that I let it breathe and read the story in its scales, and when it does, I don't think I'm going to have a choice in the matter.
So I kneel at the mythpool, hands outstretched, and I wait.
People without a mythpool think the water is clear, but it's not. Not at all. It's black as night, and all you can see are black shadows moving under the surface. You've got to fish blind. Some folks use a net to trawl, but when it comes down to it, you've got to plunge your hand into that water and grope the darkness for your catch. Sometimes, you come up with a pretty silverfish, with bright eyes and a friendly, gawping mouth. Sometimes all you get is mud and reeds. And sometimes, you stick your hand in there and pull up something nasty, noisome and gelatinous, born out of Cthulu's rancid, tentacled cooze. And it doesn't matter if you throw it back. You can, of course, but it doesn't divest you of ownership. It's still down there, in the deeps of your mythpool, and sooner or later, it'll wrap its tentacles around your hand, a child reaching for its mother, and all you can do is pull it out and let it breathe.
I've pulled up one of those nasty catches a few times in the last year, but I've always thrown it back. It deals with dangerous subjects and says things about me that I'm not sure I'm ready to hear. But it's come to the bank and touched my hand more and more often, and soon, it will demand that I let it breathe and read the story in its scales, and when it does, I don't think I'm going to have a choice in the matter.
So I kneel at the mythpool, hands outstretched, and I wait.
Tags: