The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, the days are the appropriate number of hours, nights are balmy in the summer and chilly in winter. Just like in any other place, children are born, battles are fought, elders teach the young about the ways of the universe or the right balance of water and spices in the perfect chicken soup, about the nature of light and the meaning of dreams and the power of making a wish. Everything there is the same. There are no records, no textbooks, no signs, no symbols. There are no telegrams, no diagrams, no computers, no world-wide web.
Written words are merely unneeded here.
They are unwanted and inadequate. In the Land of Belief, to communicate one uses speech, and gestures, and touch. Here, inhabitants own their own stories, inherit their histories, build their dreams in late-night conversations. In the Land of Belief, emotions prefer to travel not in a letter, but along the path of a meaningful gaze, or out from the tips of one's fingers to the surface of a lover's lips. In the Land of Belief, a touch bridges the gap between despair and flight, and one late-night, sleepy smile seals a lifetime's worth of promises.