The story is as such: twin brothers Romius and Romulous were to be killed by order of king Amulius. Abandoned and left by the Tiber, they were saved by water, by the god Tibernus, who rallied nature to sustain them. Based on this myth, the image of the boys at the breasts of a she-wolf remains the enduring symbol of Rome.
As we watched the anti-climatic re-enactment of how Rome came to be by some (thankfully not all) pot-bellied gladiators, I thought of the mythologies we tell ourselves. How our narratives are largely defined, not by what something is, but how we are. How we are a figment of our imagination. A construct.
Over champagne and popcorn, Ian, Jenny and I discussed why the British keep notions of honour and pride above being true and real. Above letting the truth be spoken. Above being open and emotional. In essence, going through life where no-one said what they mean or means what they say.
All of it, an illusion.
I wonder, if their whole society is based on a myth, then how do they find someone with whom to be real? Or do they just compare mythologies and find someone who tells, more or less, a similar story?
Life is strange. Stranger than fiction. But shouldn't we at least be real about it?