The Mythology of Heroes
Once we followed our ambitions and aspired to be great, then we grew up, and we believed the world's lies. Stop listening to the world.
Between the whistle of the wind, the morning crow caws at my window, and the water boils. I feel my heartbeat, my breath runs shallow as my brain buzzes, and my vision runs short.
A sip of coffee brings dusty memories. Old dreams come to mind. Would-be heroes spring to life.
I am that hero, at least in my dreams.
When I was young, I ran from my front door to open fields, jumping into streams, cutting cattails, and whipping the air. I stomped through mud and chased butterflies with a white grin.
My dreams contained dragons chained to clouds, castles on mountaintops with open drawbridges, treasure found at the bottom of silver-blue lakes, and water nymphs rode sea serpents over white frothy waves.
There was hope and freedom in my dreams that the real world could not hold or replicate.
On fields of gold, I played heroes and villains.
Centaurs chased me in the ancient Pholóē forest. They never caught me.
The girl next door transformed into a dryad teasing with a kiss and then ran away. Laughter trailed behind her.
I was Heracles slicing and burning the nine-headed hydra. Zeus became my father, replacing the man whose belt stripped my backside when I forgot my homework.
I was Jason searching for the golden fleece.
I was Prometheus bringing fire and understanding to ordinary mortals.
And then I became a man. My body outgrew my playground fantasies.
First, my ambitions were wild, sprouting like weeds. I sacrificed nothing in the design of my hopes. My dreams became goals; tied to each one was an intricate plan and deadline.
“I would not fail. My strength will change the world, and I will be a titan amongst mortals,” I declared.
My aspirations brought the world to my front door. They rang the doorbell and begged me to come out and play.
The problem with dreams is sharing. Once, the mirror showed I could fly above Perseus as he flew Pegasus in the night sky while holding Medusa’s head.
Other men and women cannot see the hero we pretend to be.
Sometimes, the world does not deny our ambitions; it destroys them in silence.
The desire to want more, do more, and achieve more met the friction of reality. Who are you, asked the world, to walk like a titan, build a new Olympus, or slay the dragon? You are no one.
And you and I believed the world.
From boy to man, the dreams stopped knocking.
Grown men cannot see dragons chained to clouds. They close drawbridges and hide from the dragon. They stop acting like Odysseus outwitting the Cyclops or Theseus killing the Minotaur in the maze.
I painted the mythology of my desires on cave walls with my shadow dancing behind the dusky hue of a campfire. My bloody handprint became my signature.
The legend I dreamt of becoming did not die. It just never happened.
In time, I accepted the simplicity of being a decent man. Loving a good and honest woman and building a modest and beautiful family became the new dream—a better dream.
My family brought hope.
Then the dragons came back.
They crept through my yard, tearing down my planted roses, breaking my white picket fence, and crashing through the backdoor. Their fire burnt my home.
When you are older, you care nothing for your safety; your castle's stability is everything; your citizens' welfare is all-consuming.
One dragon found its way to my daughter and gnawed at her head. From its venom grew a whelping that roosted into her brain. There is no myth here. The world calls that dragon cancer.
Myth and reality merged. And the greatest battle began.
In the real world, no Hephaestus is hammering lightning bolts to smite the Titans. The dragon killing my child was real, but there was no Greek hero or demigod to save her—only me.
And I was a simple man.
A distant car alarm broke my reverie. The coffee grew cold and bitter, and a 30-year-old memory faded into nothingness.
Old memories go away, and I stand in my kitchen wearing an old robe, and my eyes are cloudy and crusty from too much sleep.
Sitting at my table, I remembered why the real world was better than a hero from mythology. At the same time, some men were allowed happy endings, and the titans, demigods, and heroes of old fell into tragedy.
The doorbell rings, and my aspiration stands ready. I open the door and welcome my daughter home.
Sometimes, our dreams meet where the world ends and the Elysian Fields stand.
Stop waiting and dreaming and start doing. Forgive the prisoner that is you and set yourself free. You do that by not reliving yesterday’s triumphs or failures, creating new stories, and living new adventures, whether you won or lost.
Be the hero of your dreams.
Thanks for reading. I am grateful for you.
Love to you and yours,
Michael