whose stories; and who tells them?

this is a world of stories, without which it is not a real world. a world without dreams and fantasies and miracles, is not the real world. you do not have to will them to life, let them remain sapphire steeples and emerald spires, edifices in your imaginations as alive as the thousand expirations in one relucent night. one day though, they might just awake stone-hard, precious-glittering, testaments of once-upon-an-imagination. the least you can do is not demolish... - because the ensuing rubris will be an inverse tribute to their reality. there is a world from which atlases and maps are drawn - inadequate, abstract, but of course, real. we have forgotten that the world's first Atlas tumbled out from a story: passionately beheld in the grecian heart, carrying this weight of the world, and from which many other stories tumbled forth. so authentic these fables, cloud-high skyscrapers and invisible (global) economies graze on it. there is another world that resides in the heart - diminutive, frivolous, and naturally, unreal. but it is truer than anything in this world. it has always been. does it matter whose stories and who tells them, as long as there are stories to be told?