“Myths are stories big enough for two people to live inside.”

A myth is not a relic; it’s an architecture of shared belief. It is a structure wide enough that when two people enter, they find themselves reflected in one another’s shadows on the wall. The story holds their echoes.

Myths expand to fit the intimacy of interpretation. When one person tells a story, it becomes a mirror; when two believe in it, it becomes a room. The walls are made of metaphors, the floor of faith, the roof of language that holds back chaos just enough to allow conversation.

The strength of a myth lies not in its accuracy but in its capacity for cohabitation. It survives as long as two people can walk its corridors without touching the same walls in quite the same way.

Yet the American myth, once a mansion of contradictions, now stands fractured—its rooms divided by fear, its thresholds guarded by scarcity. Without shared myths, a society loses its architecture of belonging. In that vacuum, we choose between cruelty and imagination: to prune, through incapacitation, denaturalization, and incarceration, those deemed unworthy of the story—or to rewrite the myth wide enough to shelter the multiplicity already living inside it.

A myth survives not because it is perfect, but because it keeps making room.