An ode to a hero
In the night when the sun is no longer bright and the beautiful shadows envelope the mind, we think, we dream, we dream of great heroes unsung, of odes of bravery, of a better world, of greatness larger than life. We feel small next to such feats, to such heroism, such perfection. We wake up, disappointed, meaningless, empty and we go about our lives filling that emptiness with distractions. Work, sex, alcohol, drugs, yoga, god, religion, clothes, technology, media, travelling, posting, jogging, running. Running, an incessant running of our perceived failure to matter, to be different, to be loved in our uniqueness, us the greatest of unsung of heroes. We dream, we dream, but the hero is just a figment, a figment of our ego of everything we wish it was but, existing in reality it is not and the greatest strike, the greatest bruise comes the day we acknowledge this true. We will never be the hero, we tried, we tried really hard but we failed, miserably, unequivocally, horribly. We are nothing, just ourselves and being ourselves is never enough, because is lonely, unremarkable, ordinary. So, we dream again of heroes in others on the outside of ourselves, and we dream of the great hero that will come and save us, take us away of our misery, our despair, our nothingness. The hero will give us life, will give us strength will give us stamina to carry on to face life, to be larger than ourselves, the hero will help us find our purpose our raison d'etre our matterness. Many heroes come into our lives, they come and they go, they never stay for long, but in the time they stay we feel stronger, we feel special, we feel we matter, because how could we not when the hero, this larger than life being needs us, see us, understand us in our despair and misery. Until one day they don't. They don't understand us, they don't know us, they are a stranger in heroic clothes we no longer recognize, because after all they are flesh and blood just like us. Searching for matterness, for uniqueness, for purpose, they too saw a hero in us, but there are no heroes, are there? Only delusion exists in a world, where specialness is cultivated as a wondrous gift that should be protected, fondled and cared for. But what if our specialness is just the sameness of others, what do we do then? We expose ourselves in our rawness, in our ordinariness, in our bared battered soul and in an ode to a hero that does not exist but hopes to find other un-heroes like them.