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Why do ancient myths haunt us?

  • shamfare
  • May 26
  • 3 min read

Why do ancient myths still haunt us?


Why do we still tell the same stories?


Thousands of years have passed since the first myths were etched into stone tablets or passed through whispered fireside tales by illiterate bards. Icarus who flew a little too close to the sun with wax wings now resonates as a cautionary tale of overambition and hubris. The immortal Irish tale of the Children of Lir endures to remind us about the tragedy of exile, perseverance and feminine rage. Stories of Odysseus’ loyalty to his wife and devotion to his homeland have carried through time and inspired us. These stories, whether intended to or not, have securely echoed throughout time and have found their way into our media, our metaphors and even into our moral codes. But why do they persist?


What is it? Is it a primal essence of nostalgia? Perhaps a childish level of enjoyment? Cultural inertia? Or is there something more robust—perhaps neurological—that roots myth so stubbornly into the human psyche?


Storytelling is an evolutionary tool. Neuroscientific research has shown that listening to stories do not activate just the language centres of the brain but also the motor, sensory, and emotional circuits. When we hear a story about a hero facing insurmountable loss, our own limbic system lights up as if we are the ones grieving. Stories allow us to simulate the world, we can see corners of the world that we never knew existed, we experience the purest forms of love throughout the ages and carry pieces of their inevitable tragedy and heartbreak with us. Stories give shape and substance to abstract experiences: love, betrayal, death.


Myths fulfil our brains by providing a scaffold of structure in a chaotic tale. We can piece together patterns, causes-and-effects, meanings. Carl Jung called them “archetypes”— the hero. The universal, symbolic figure that reverberates in our dreams and tales. These archetypes also exist beyond the books and arguably are reflected in our own minds, deep within our own brain structures. The amygdala is often referred to as our ‘fear centre’, heightened in moments of uncertainty, threat and danger, this might underpin our instinctual response to the monstrous. The hero who launches into battle without a second thought. The prefrontal cortex, essential for moral judgment, helps us process tales of redemption and justice – paralleling to a judge. Myths are metaphorically embedded in neural architecture. There’s a reason why the trials of Prometheus feel spiritually familiar to modern whistleblowers, or why Medusa’s gaze still paralyses us with shame.


When we listen to a myth, we don’t just listen—we absorb it and we attempt to locate ourselves within it. Our brains ask: What would I do? Who am I in this story?  This is why myths often function like psychological mirrors.


They don’t just tell us who the gods are—they reflect who we are.


Myths aren’t just told—they’re ritualised. Repeated. Delicately carried through generations like neural hymns. Particularly in Irish culture, where majority of the population were largely illiterate up until the 19th century, due to a plethora of colonial, social and economic factors, stories were passed down through oral storytelling. This is still important today where Gaelic storytelling allows for a reviving of the endangered language and is held closely to the Irish diaspora.


We know that repetition strengthens synaptic connections between neurons. Applying this, over time, myth and belief are woven into our memory systems, not just culturally but biologically. Why am I in 21st century still writing about the epics?


Why do they haunt us?


Because myths are less about the gods and more about us. About what we do with the stories and our interactions with them. Do we try to emulate characteristics of the heroic protagonist? Are we inspired to be more loyal? More pious? Braver? Fiercer in how we love? Or do we try to understand the cruel antagonist? Do we try to logically reason their unforgiveable acts of betrayal, the way we hope someone would do ours? Do we unwrap their confining stereotypes to see them a little clearer? Our brains are able to distil the chaos of the story and experience it in a more graspable form. These myths, rich in grief, unfiltered rage and love make us feel less alone with ours. Perhaps more powerfully, myths allow us to remember that we humans belong to something greater, even if that something is just a story.


-       Sham

 
 
 

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