This will be purposefully obscure; I’m not sure of my subject. My self-imposed rules prevent me from telling you which person or thing or concept I might be referring to. He or she or it is difficult to define; mysterious; the very stereotype of the riddle enfolded in the puzzle inside the conundrum. But let me try. You might like to think of it thus: the picture or museum piece which pulls you up short; the bird surprised from the ling when you stroll by; jewels of heirlooms encountered in those kinds of shops which resell items of sufficient history; the precious relic you might cherish for life, retrieved from shingle spits or oyster shells. Hmmm, but I’m giving the impression of something not living, which is not quite right. This entity lived, lives still, will go on living long into the future.
One line to try might be to suggest it resembles soup bubbling in the tureens of minds, mine or yours. Its ingredients might be stock or exotic or both. Sunk to the bottom of the pot, objects lie dispersed like wrecks on the benthos, eroded structures within which divers might find forgotten chests of booty, submerged in brine-encrusted memory. Other ingredients swim throughout the soup, rising to its bubbling lip with or without prompting. The soup is either silent like the stoppered stillness inside bottles; noisy like the most ferocious, lightning-fuelled storm; or gentle in its hubbub, like your bistro of choice, cutlery meeting crockery conjoined with the thrum of merriment.
Or does this thing resemble interconnected studios in endless series; every door or corridor brings you closer to one unique room, into which you move knowing you might never come out. Inside it is subtly lit, with plum tones; beyond which, dim nebulosity; yet everything you need is here. Why would you try to exit?
Or it is best pictured occurring by trickling, tinkling brooks under the veil of willow trees, below which he or she or it is the subject of sporting discourse; before long, or the end of time, expect every notion under the sun to drift by. The discoursers might well ink everything voiced on huge sheets of vellum, so recording their discussion for eternity.
Though I suppose it might be none of these things, or every single one of them. Were I to be more specific, I would risk the undoing of this whole enterprise. But feel free to guess of which person or thing or concept I tell, though I will be surprised if your suggestion is correct; it is fiendishly difficult, this riddle of mine.