Heroes of Our Time

Something a little... naive... written in the hours between night and dawn.
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It’s not something I’m told often, and then when I am, it is served deep-fried in derision.

“Who do you think you are- someone special?”
“Why do you want to attract people’s attention- huh?”
“What do you hope to accomplish by acting like that?”

I’d like to think that I am a modest person. I’m not a saint or anything, I like to boast occasionally when an opportune moment presents itself, but
I realize that I am defined by what I do, not by what I say.

It stings when someone accuses me of being a prima donna… I know that it isn’t true… but not quite.

It’s true that I don’t want to be seen.

Even I don’t like looking at my own face, so I see no point in subjecting others to it. It’s just a confused, random mess that I got in (*Terrible Metaphor Alert!!!*) cosmic tombola (<0>_<0>)
I don’t see myself in it. Except the eyes… tired, sunken, unexceptional… dangerous, that is me.

But I do want to be heard.

I want to fuss, argue, fight, debate, win, lose, and yell until everyone else is yelling too.

It’s another subconscious decision, I suppose. When you are silent you are ignored. When you are ignored you are considered weak. Being considered weak can make you feel weak and if you feel weak, you ARE weak.

This is how I look at it-

If my argument holds merit, and it carries behind it the weight of my convictions- then it will be heard, for I will have only given form to some latent emotion.

If it does not, it will be unable to propagate… and unable, hopefully, to cause lasting damage or distortion before being consigned to the trash heap of destiny.

So speak, and don’t make it easy for those who would prefer you weak.
The next time you see me trying to pick a fight, it is not because I wish to impose my opinion on people- it is because I want them to fight for what they believe in. After all… if something is not worth defending, if it unable to stand up to harsh scrutiny, how can it be worth obeying…?

I have a ‘hero complex’ of sorts, and I am agonizingly aware of it. While some people must have thought it they really wouldn’t mention it to me.

I’ve kept it to myself, mostly, I mean, wouldn’t it just be ridiculous for a grown (apparently) man to be thinking with this kind of obvious naivety in the face of a world that is both cruel and unrelenting…? That many of my role models are abstractions, characters, not real people…? … People just aren’t good enough.

Sometimes I live these fantasies through my imagination, my writing, but by mere definition this self-indulgence is a shackle that must be broken before I can do something more.

I realize that my capacity as a ‘hero’ in real life will be limited to getting killed/fired/arrested/beaten-up pointlessly, and then forgotten. But a little fatalism seeps in here, after all- the only thing I have to lose is my life, my only reason to live is boredom, it would not be so bad to bleed for something, someone… instead of bleeding for nothing.

This complex makes me do things that really aren’t my natural motivation. They just seem to be the kind of things a good protagonist would do. It makes me feel that people need help, that they need to be saved.

Maybe they do, but people choose whether or not to be helped, they choose their saviour.

I realize that it is unfair. Humans are imperfect, self-serving beings, so can’t I be selfish this way?

Ah, you must be wondering- Didn’t this moron say that he wasn’t a Prima Donna? He is.

I am not a Prima Donna. The flaws that accompany this complex need to be addressed, but some… ideals that are inherent to it still hold value- and they apply for everyone.

I don’t think that I am special, that the world revolves- or should revolve, around me.

But I don’t think that I am powerless either.

Many are.

You are not.

There is only one… gift, one right we all have… It is the only thing we will ever have, it is the only thing ANYONE has ever had, and it is an incredibly powerful thing. We get choose to be who we are.

This life- this blank slate is for us to fill. This is your story, and you are the protagonist.

What man can claim to have controlled anything other than his own being?
What man dare tell you that your life is not your own?

Remember this, and hold on to it forever. The question is not whether you will be remembered. The question is whether you will remember what you’ve done.

Will you be proud of what you are? Granted my life has been relatively short- but I’ve never been proud of doing nothing, of being a witness and not an actor, of being lazy, incompetent and useless, and something gives me the feeling that this is not going to change any time soon.

As I write these words I only become more aware of the impotency of my existence, but for some reason it drives me to write more.

How long do you plan to lurk in the shadows- waiting for your chance, waiting for your destiny? Every day lost to idleness, to weakness, every day that will not be remembered, is effectively a day of death.

Yes, the books you read, the movies you see, begin on premises enforced by fate- but your story has already begun. The hand of Fate has been in play in your life all along, how long will you deny it?

Everything that you choose to do stays with you forever, damn well better make it worthwhile.

Look into the mirror. What stares back at you is a stranger, but look at it anyway. Look at what everyone else sees. You might accidentally see a flicker of yourself, and if you find it- carry that fire within your eyes.

They will be ones who have had a hint of their power over destiny, utterly conscious of the price they have paid for it- They will have built their own wings alongside chains. They have chosen to fight for this world- or for one that does not exist yet, the heroes of our time.