The flight ends with my cart beyond me, my broken body draining into the desert sand, my thoughts now food for the palms. Not with the omnipotence of Superman nor even the agility of Mighty Mouse, but more the fated desperation of Wiley Coyote – launched only to collide again with the earth, a hero in one’s mind alone. And curled within like a young Bam Margera… Is it arrogant for me to aspire to be a hero? Will I save lives or inspire greatness in others? Providence has not provided me the time to indulge such fancy rather it has forced me into my chariot as I have failed to hop in myself. Pushing my cart and gaining speed, I think of heroes such as Beowulf, The Greatest American Hero, and that television show that I sometimes see promoted while I watch sporting events. Reflecting on the heroism of those who came before me, I stood atop the escarpment gazing at the endless desert below with one proverb to strengthen me: “Not the glittering weapon fights the fight, but rather the hero’s heart.” This is a good thing, because my shopping cart has junk wheels.įor the life of me I cannot recall from where I stole it, nor how I managed to push it so deeply into the desert that neither road nor Wal-Mart is anymore visible.
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