Why They Called It a Lie — And Why It Still Matters

A Word to the Wanderers

 P. Glenn

Why They Called “Myth” a Lie

Because myth told the truth in a language they couldn’t control.

Because it whispered through firelight and dream, not doctrine and decree.

Because it offered many meanings - when they needed just one.

They called it a lie
because it wouldn’t stay still.
Because it walked across cultures, wore too many names,
and kept showing up in the wrong places
- like a trickster slipping into temples with muddy feet.
Because it couldn’t be proven
with tools of conquest or charts of kings.
Myth didn’t build empires - it warned them.

Because it dared to speak in metaphor
while they were drafting laws.

They called it a lie      because it sang in caves, not courts.
Because it shaped souls, not systems.
Because it moved in circles when the world wanted lines.

But myth was never the lie.
The lie was what they built to replace it.

To replace wonder with certainty.
Presence with power.
Meaning with control.

They didn’t mean to kill it -
not all of them.
Some thought they were preserving the fire
by locking it behind altar gates.

But you can’t systematize a river.
You can’t creed a constellation.
You can’t command a story to stay in its seat
once the soul has heard its name.

So now we walk again
with myth at our side.
Not to believe in it -
but to live with it.
To let it breathe.
To let it speak.
To let it show us how to be human - again.

 Why It Still Matters

You don’t need to believe in Zeus or decode ancient runes.
You don’t need a shrine or a secret password.
You just need to remember that you’re not wrong to long for more.

That ache inside you?
The one that rises when the world feels thin -
when politics feel performative,
when faith feels weaponized,
when the silence in your chest feels louder than the noise online -
that ache is mythic.

Not myth as fantasy.
Not myth as manipulation.

Myth as mirror.
As ember.
As the language your soul knew before it was taught what not to say.

They told you stories were for children.
But stories are how adults survive.
Especially the kind of story that doesn’t promise escape -  but gives you something to hold as you walk through fire.

There was once a time when myth and ritual walked together.
When symbols weren’t sermons, but doorways.
When sacredness didn’t demand belief - only attention.

That time isn’t gone.
It’s just been forgotten.

“Yet memory is its own kind of fire.”

It’s remembering itself again.
Through flame.
Through labyrinth.
Through the quiet breath you’re taking right now.

We won’t shout.
We won’t sell you answers.
We won’t guard the fire.

But we will tend it.
For those who still believe in something they can’t explain.
For those whose hearts ache for the sacred - but not the spectacle.
For those who still whisper in the dark: “There has to be something more.”

There is.

It’s not up there.
It’s not back then.
It’s not hidden.

It’s already burning.

You didn’t miss it.
You don’t need to earn it.

You just need to come closer - when you’re ready.