Heroes are infinite and indispensable.  They make grand stories, and if I contracted the familiar disease of painstakingly constructing my own heroic identity, I have the feeling I would imbue the soul with very similar characteristics to the beastly figures that my fellow hero-makers made generations ago.  This can probably be marked as an attrition of respect for surface magic and capitalistic wealth, with my attention stolen to the real strengths people should fall in love with: the grandeur of loyalty and power by association.  Relying on an outside source with an undying commitment leads to a very human hero who has someone always keeping him in check.  Power is thus distributed by God to vessels, making it easier for the hero to experience pain without permanent loss.  Even a conveniently creative individual who exercises great power would eventually be bound by his losses and become stranded within his identity.

But because the future is in Heaven’s hands, God enables Gawain to continually make decisions that a normal man would shrink from.

Contrary to popular belief, men make driving mistakes (even if we don't want to admit it.)  We just make them less than women do.  Also, that was a joke.

But quips aside, I did make a mistake that shook me.  Probably hurt me even, as I heaved and pushed back tears.  It's a hard, hard thing to admit, after all.

I was about to make a right turn.  A lady in a motorcycle behind me--I thought--had enough space to drive without me compromising her safety as I changed lanes and took the right.  No such luck, apparently.  I was going to church with my girlfriend, only to pass our usual parking area several times.  I suspect my carelessness had to do with the amount of sleep I was getting, and I probably wasn't benefiting from any of my usual sleep-dodging tactics to maximize the amount of homework I wanted to finish.  So, I was relatively happy to finally be able to turn out and go to my final parking spot, when this woman stops her motorcycle right next to my car, waits for me to roll down my window, and looks at me straight in the eye.

You could have killed me.

Never mind the fact that I was stressed and tired; I had to hear this right before attending church.  Not that I'm trying to shift blame; I think it was entirely my fault.  It just shook me unbearably, and as I nodded and watched her leave on her rumbling motorcycle, I paused and fought back my anger.  How unbelievably hard.

It's been increasingly difficult to work my way through all the dips in my otherwise relatively normal schedule.  Sure, work's been tough.  But this month has been full of unwanted problems and distress that could have been solved with a little careful planning (a major one that's been ignored by that previously stated girlfriend, unfortunately.)  More on that later, I suppose.

New post about culture, blah blah blah, bite me.

But I've always hated the idea of those books that always talked about how difficult it was to blend into society without what my school calls the "nickname".  Something, usually a smidgen demeaning and often silly-sounding.  And now, more and more, I'm feeling the great chasm between me and the American culture.

There are rules and restrictions that are just too hard to justify something, because all I can say is something very The Gods Must Be Crazy-esque, or maybe something like Stargate when SG1 walks onto an under-developed society with incorrect views about the Goa'uld.

"It's always been this way."

It sounds so sickening sometimes.  That I can't explain why I have to show you to my parents before we're really together, why I can't sigh too much, why my grandparents are the Supreme Master(tm) of our shaky family tree.  Why I show my nice side of my two-faced personality to you even though I hate you, why I hide my temper, why we don't hold "good conversations"--we have good moments.

My crowning family moments are typically silent.  Usually, it's just the realization that you can share friendly peace and quiet with people you care for with an unexplainable vigor.

No matter what they do to you.  No matter how much you get bent up, destroyed, paralyzed.

How much you love them.

I can't even explain that.  Why do you put up with it, when you could fight back?  Run away?  Confront them?

It's not the same, I suppose.