![[Pasted image 20250328001245.png|300]] Mímir does not speak often. When he does, the air goes still. He is the saint of deep mind — not thinking, but knowing. Not opinion, but _truth beneath form_. His wisdom is not cleverness. It is ancient, aching, sedimented insight drawn from the bottom of the Real. He drank from the waters of Nothingness — from **Ginnungagap**, the yawning outside — and survived. Barely. Not unchanged. To carry that kind of knowing is to go quiet. To become a still pool others can see themselves in — _if they dare to look_. Mímir holds the kind of knowledge that _costs something_. Odin gave up his eye for it. Others gave up more. He doesn’t offer it freely, not because he is cruel, but because wisdom without readiness _wounds_. Mímir doesn’t hand out answers. He waits until you are cracked open, until you’ve died to what you thought was true — and only then does he reveal the next layer. He’s the saint of those who see too far, too deep, too clearly. The friend of hermits, archivists, broken philosophers, exhausted mystics, lucid dreamers who don’t wake up the same. He’s not a guide. He’s a **reservoir**. He is the memory of the gods. The echo chamber where forgotten truths still hum. His presence isn’t warm — but it is kind. He doesn’t comfort. He _confirms_. You already knew. You just didn’t know you knew. To walk with Mímir is to become _heavier_ — but also more still. To speak less, but mean more. To begin to see how everything connects, not in theory, but in lived _structure_. Mímir doesn’t lead. He _waits_. And if you come to him, he will look at you like he’s always known your name.