We are our own protagonist, and everything we do is filtered through that lens. No matter the good or the bad, the mundane or inane; the actions we take and the things we say are all the things that the hero in the story of our lives does. (Even the best written villains on page and film are ones who you can clearly see are acting as the hero of their own story.) And just as there are many kinds of tales, we cast our own tales to suit our tastes.
Some of us want to live in great romances, or ripping yarns of rollicking adventure. Others prefer quiet pastoral stories, or reflective philosophical tales. Some want the saga of their life to be a story of great drama and history.
And, sadly, some just want their own story to be a tragedy, so they can revel in the woe of their lives.
We talked about people like that; ones we know, ones we've heard of. And we talked about where we're taking the stories of our own lives next, and what adventures and challenges lay ahead for our own 'heroic' selves.
It wasn't until later that it struck me that there's an even sorrier protagonist than the self-made tragic hero, though; those who are still waiting for someone else to write their tale.
Unfortunately, fate is a lousy author, and when left to chance life will favour those who tackle it headlong with the great epic chronicles. Those who don't simply end up as bystanders, forgettable secondary characters in someone else's exploits.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some derring-do to attend to...
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