I can feel words thrumming in me.
No, that's not quite right.
I can feel stories thrumming in me.
They're filtering through me like so many motes of dust in a sunbeam.
But that isn't right either.
Because how can I deem them dust and myself the sunbeam?
To be honest, these stories are far more ancient, more potent, more wise, than this human shape I wear.
And, to be honest, these stories frighten me almost as much as they exhilarate me.
Because I'm not enough, my small self pleads.
But my wild woman throws her head back and howls with laughter at this notion and then leads me deeper into the forest.
Because, silly child, you are everything.
These stories are threads, thousands of threads, and their strength has been tested, broken, and then rebuilt through the millennia.
These are stories that have been passed with reverence through millions of hearts. These are the same stories, though, that have been spit from too many mouths twisted with fear.
Endless iterations, in endless lifetimes.
And these stories? These are the stories that weave me into existence.