The myth is truth dressed in mist, a fabric that flows as rivers and eddies in tight swirls. And so they are interesting for the explorer, for they have more linguistic traps for the mind than any ancient old-world tomb. Only the pure of heart may reach their treasures, for only the pure of heart will share the wealth.
The myth is how we tell the stories that matter, how we store and pass on information down the generations in ways the "masters" could never comprehend. So pay attention to their tales and the language they are woven in, for everything is part of the story.
We spoke in metaphor, in words of condensed meaning, because they expand to speak of our truth - and this is what myths are - made by the dreaming brain so that the subconscious can navigate a dangerous environment.
The myth is my mirth, my cunning way to tell truth that the ears of the stupid think are fictional tales. We aren't dumb son. We never were. And we storytellers, perhaps, just perhaps, we happened to be somewhat magic.
When pandora's box opened, the door to the world, the source code handled by demons, we kept hope not in the box yet wove it into myths and legends to keep it forever safe.