D a y d r e a m s

h e r o e s

we could be heroes -- dedicated to those who feel like nothing matters if they're not saving the world

( i ) it starts when we're little and the world is just another adventure. Anything--everything--is possible. We're dreaming of rockstars and stages, of lights flashing behind us and a crowd screaming our names. We're dreaming of kings and queens, of gold crowns and thrones, of honor and royalty. We could be heroes. We want to be Spider-Man. We want to fly sky high with a red cape on our shoulders. We want to be Batman. We want to run through the night and fight the monsters of the dark. We want to save the world. 

( i i ) then we get a little older and being a hero starts looking impossible. Santa Claus isn't real, neither is the Easter Bunny, and Mom and Dad start forgetting to leave coins and dollars underneath the pillow when we lose a tooth. Our ideas become fairytales, our dreams, stay dreams. It becomes a little harder to picture ourselves as Superman because suddenly, we're not flying through the playground. We're only running. 

( i i i ) what makes a hero, a hero? Is it bravery? Is it always doing the right thing? Fearlessness? Superpowers? Sacrifice? We scribble down these traits for an English project on Anglo-Saxon heroes and Greek warriors. By now, we think--no, we know--that those heroes on television aren't real, that our comics are just stories. We can't save the world. We can barely survive the day. Leave the heroics to the protagonists of our books, to the soldiers and officers, to those who can actually make a difference. 

( i v ) on and on this vicious cycle continues. We're trapped, caged, desperate to escape, to jump and touch the stars. But we're held down by our fears, bound by the terror of the unknown. What more can we offer? We're not heroes. We're only fools. We're young blood with dying lionhearts. We don't have what it takes to be heroes. We're nothing like the epics, the legends, the myths. 

( v ) but that's where we got it all wrong. We grew up believing that heroes are made of the impossible, that we can only save the world if we've got the universe in our veins. That we need to fly through burning buildings and lift cars. But we forget that we too are made of stardust and galaxies. We forget that change doesn't always alter the universe and crumble empires. We forget that, and so we forget what we're capable of. We don't realize that by pushing on every day, we've saved ourselves. To live is a fierce war, one that we win by the end of every night. And isn't that what heroes do? Don't they fight their demons to protect themselves and those around them? We're not saving New York from an alien invasion but we're braving the monsters of today, of tomorrow, of the days to come. 

( v i ) we've never stopped wanting to save the world, but we've forgotten that we ourselves are worlds of possibilities. Maybe we're not making a difference in the macro sense, but we're saving those that look to us when they're weak, we're saving those that need our arms when they fall. We could be heroes, still, as long we remember that we're destined for the stars.