Every day we tell stories that cast ourselves as the hero, the victim, the martyr, but rarely the villain. We reserve the role of the villain for another, to bring out the best in our character by contrast. Sympathies align with the storyteller, so Heroes and their ilk are seldom made. Rather, they are told to others. Humans, however, are made. We are made from our mistakes. However good or great we think we are, man was never given wings to soar with ease to grand heights. He was given strong enough legs to climb and stumble on his awkward way up.
I believe in something like ghosts. Not the sulking spectres that roam the halls at night, but the idea that there is something of our lives left behind even when all life has left us. It is a thing that lives with and without us, that we invest in with every moment and memory we share. It is an incantation that, whenever spoken, conjures at least the faintest image of you for a spell. It is the sum of your existence; it haunts you as you live and then others when you don’t. It can shift shape and sound strange, but it will always follow you the same. Yet to others it may weigh different, to some it may be dead, and to most it may never have existed. But to those who knew it in life, and carry it well on their lips, your name can be all you truly own in this world and all that you leave behind.