All the Things in the World and the Sound They Make

Perhaps it is because I am an ego-maniacal narcissist, but I would not want to be any fictional character under any circumstance ever. This conclusion is one which has pained me over the last four days, but after much thought and deliberation, I have established this as a certain truth that any human-being who wishes to remain human would consent himself too.

Yet it is a difficult assertion, for who would not want to be Harry Potter? Who would not want to go to Olivander's and get a magical wand? Who would not want to play Quidditch? Who would not want to get accepted to Hogwarts? And who after all, would not want to defeat the Dark-Lord and become the most  famous wizard in all of the world?

I sure as Hell wouldn't.

For one, you have to remember Harry is an orphan. For god-sakes the boy lived under a staircase, tortured by his obnoxious aunt and bullish uncle and brutish cousin, for the first twelve years of his life. And maybe it is because I am a mama's boy that I would never ever want to submit myself to such a life. I have lived a life of privilege and always gotten whatever I have wanted, and I would wager that I am luckier than Harry Potter even when he drank that bottle of felix felices. Nothing, in my mind, is of any greater importance than family, and that is something that Harry lacked. The closest he ever got was Sirius, and even he died.

Secondly, who the Hell would want the pressure of saving the world? Harry, through what would be his high-school years, faces an untold amount of death, and loss and carnage. By the time the final installment of the series  comes around, he has to face the purest manifestation of evil known in all of the literary world— Lord Voldemort. And in doing so he faces the surest possibility of death. Worse yet, if he loses, he faces the possibility that Lord Voldemort takes over the world he loves, killing, enslaving, and debasing all human and wizard-life on the planet. We think that taking four or five AP classes is stressful; try being Harry Potter.

Third, in the end, he marries a ginger who is totally less hot than Hermione. Not chill. Moreover, he unequivocally infringes upon the most righteous Bro-Code in marrying his best friend's sister. Call me old-fashioned, but that is thoroughly reprehensible.

Yet, let's forget Harry Potter, and look at fictional characters as a whole. Nearly every one of them has a horrible flaw, whether it be environmental, or internal. Superman is an orphan, and immortal. Frodo is really short. James Bond is in constant threat of death. All his love-affairs die. He kills for a living. Now, that is not to say that every human being lacks similar problems to these characters. Yet, when one posesses one's own problem, the problems seem not so awful, or serious. I think everyone likes the familiarity of their existences and troubles and turmoils too much to trade them in for someone else's

But more importantly, not a single character wields the noble sword of free-will. Every single one of them is a slave. No matter how mighty, or ferocious, intelligent or beautiful, every fictional character that has ever existed or ever will, is nothing more than a puppet. Bound by the strings of a puppeteer, they never live or function in the manner we humans do. And I believe that life, of any form, whether that of a schizophrenic homeless-man or the President of the United States, is superior to the servitude fictional characters suffer. Therefore, I would never fetter myself  with the ball and chain of fictitiousness no matter how high or low my station in life was.

Yet even after this answer I wasn't completely satisfied. Because, after all, there exists quite a bit to be argued against free will. Frankly, free will often sucks. I realized that yesterday afternoon. Because I'd say my whole life I've done a half decent job of pursuing some semblance of morality. I work hard. I don't drink or party. I try to be kind to everyone. I pray.

Maybe it was the dreary rain, but I felt as if all that didn't matter. For I was effectively alone. I stood. The world turned. And somewhere on that globe every girl I had ever liked was having one Hell of a time with one Helluva guy. Which is great in a way. But dissatisfying. I figure it is that whole bit about breathing, and passing through time, and living with your decisions that often makes this whole being human thing suck.

And all these thoughts sorta built in me like a cold, wet, constricting wrap of rope around my heart. And whenever I get to feeling that way I go out and run. And as I said it was drizzling cold rain. And there is a lot to be said for running in the rain. Because when you do so you can't whether the drops going down your face are from your own tears or the rain.

And whenever I run I have these fantasies about turning into a callous bad-ass and getting into a fight, going to jail, and starting a revolution in Cuba.

And the fantasy ends and there you are dissatisfied again.

And then, running still, I was looking at the black rows of fences that seem to enclose every bit of rural property in the Bluegrass.

And I remembered a story my dad told me. It was something like 1970. He was a Sophomore in college walking across UK's campus one Saturday afternoon when he saw a girl sitting on a bench, her yellow bike with a basket laying beside it, her legs folded and crossed Sitting-Bull style. And she was muttering something to herself. "Nomnio ho ringue kyo," approximately. She opened her eyes. And was beautiful. My dad is just like me, except better, and immediately started spitting some game. And she invited him to a party she and her friends were having that night.

And he went to the party that night.

And it was weird. They were 20th Century Buddhists, spaced out on grass and Timothy Leary. My dad, a pretty devout Catholic at the time, and former altar boy, was out of place. Yet, for a hot girl, one can put up with the bizarre. He went along with it all. So soon they were all huddled in a circle, doing the exact same thing that the girl was doing on the bench that afternoon. My dad figured out it was called meditation. And once more they all began to say, "Nomnio ho ringue kyo." And my dad asked the hippy girl what exactly that meant.

And she said, "All the things in the world and the sound they make."

And in recalling this story I asked myself how much different I was than that fence-row I was looking at. I was animated. It was not. Yet if you hit either of us we would make a sound just the same. And I got to thinking while running that we aren't all that different from objects. We get hit and pounded and drummed and plucked and twirled and spun and blended and whipped by fate and crushed and weathered and all we do is make sound in response as if we have no other choice. And one day we, like objects, break into pieces, and grow into the Earth.

But objects have it easier, I thought. They don't have to think or feel. They don't have to live by morals. They don't have to try. In just existing they are what they should be. They take up space without having to move. They never face heartbreak. They don't know what it means to be lonely.

And thus I concluded that I would much rather be a fictional object, than a fictional character, or even a real human-being.

I decided if I could be anything at all I would be the broomstick Hermione rides in the Deathly Hallows. For the older I get the more sure I am that I am no more than a piece of wood.

Yet even such a heartless realization left me dissatisfied. For I got to thinking that on a rainy day that the only thing that can make you happy is when you look into yourself and find that bit of you called the Holy Spirit. It's eternal. And the fountain of infinite hope.

And this is why the lives of fictional characters abysmally fail to satisfy me. Because while we have a Divine Creator to turn to for love and strength, they just have us.