The Road to Hyperborea

We have so much ground to make up - enough ground to make it nearly impossible and, at the least, not worth the effort. By now I am already in the second book of a trilogy or a tetralogy and you have just now finished fumbling through the preface. I was not born on this mountain; I have not lived my entire life in this cave, but I have only ascended here for a time - I hope. I am not beyond you, only beyond that immanent space where our two souls find traction. Only the story of it is longer than the journey through the wilderness to this ivory tower. I cannot stop, though; I cannot wait - I must go on. However, I feel compelled to leave little clues, piles of rock, and pieces of my story on the Road to Hyperborea ("a labyrinth of thousands of years"). I guess that is why I am here, to stand on the roof of the world and cry out, to be strapped to the Silver Chair and let my body be thrashed by my soul. But you ask, "how can you go forward, go back, and remain in your castle all at the same time?" While the question is not bad, the answer may only be for the Hyperborean, or at least for the sojourner. Have you not felt, youself, the limits of and expections to linear time? In that flood of nostalgia, every detail of a past so distant is transfigured before you in the most real of presents. In that dream or moment of deja vu, a face so familiar, yet never met before. Might it be a harbinger of the future? Time is this play thing of the gods, who generously chain us to it for our own safety and sanity. But occasionally the wind blows back a corner of the curtain and we see it for itself - terrifying, mystifying, beautiful.