This is who I am, I keep telling myself: a hero. That I should rescue my father -- the past or something poignant, I don’t quite know -- from the clutches of a dragon or perhaps the dragon. That I should be happy and fulfilled in the present, that I should discard the illusions that plague me. But I don’t know what those illusions are supposed to be, where they start and where I start. Am I just a bag filled with lies or is there a substance to my being… I don’t know, but I feel like I should.

Chaos, someone once put it, is what I should avoid, strive to order, but living it seems -- for me -- is between the states. And order rarely comes into the calculations. It’s a fault, has to be, but what can I do to escape it? I see no way out, whether my temperament or upbringing is to blame. Or am I to blame… I do not know.

What has bugged me the most the recent past is the will to write, and the chosen subject that dwells within has always been that of fantasy. Cities with high walls, morals black and white, and uncontaminated gardens, but where do I fit in all this? Should I be the hero, or should a more just part of my being take the spotlight? Do I even must insert myself in, I ask but get no answer out of myself. And besides, writing about myself seems only to be a vain attempt to grasp some silly ideas and naive points my immature mind can’t comprehend. To call myself a hero could be the punchline to the literary joke.

And joke it would be, lest my wordsmithing