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We all wonder sometimes, if those words are a really a lie. We all wonder if it’s true. We all wonder if forgiveness is possible. We all know it’s not. We all hope, we all hope that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. We all know that there isn’t. Some, no most of us have tried before. Tried to change. Each of us in turn tried. When we failed we emerged more hated. When we failed we emerged a shade darker. It’s like the tale of Icarus. We aren’t really birds. We can not fly too close to the sun; we will not fly too close to the ocean. It’s a bitter and ironic truth.
A man who sought only to protect his kingdom and his loved ones, falls because they believe he is bad, that his son is bad, falls because he flew too high, because he was close to escaping our fate. Because he was too good he falls.
A boy who sought to find his mother. He was a bird but when he touched her his wings became wax, fake. He flew low. He couldn’t fly close to the sun after flying so low. They call to him, tell him that he can return. But he knows the truth. He will never be able to return to the skies. He saw it again and again. Every time he wanted to, he saw so plainly on their faces why he could not. They pitied him, despised him, mistrusted him, feared him, but never accepted him. He would never fly through the skies again. Occasionally, he wonders if he ever really flew to begin with, or if he had just sat on a bird and pretended that his own wings were real.
These are two stories, two out of thousands upon thousands. Stories unheard, stories unheeded. These are our stories, the stories of the misunderstood, of those who exist in the gray. The stories of Anti-heroes.