Fakers? I'll show you fakers.

You want to see deluded people living a life of complete fantasy? Go to an anime convention. Where men are women and women are skanks. This is the world within the glassy doors of the convention hall, while outside Cloud smokes his cig with open disdain for the other twelve sword-carrying, spike haired fakers because HIS fakery is the best. He pretends he is epic. He pretends he has worth and friends and love. The worst thing? He probably already does.

But it's not his own love and friends and glory he wants, it is that of a video game character. A person who is literally nothing except a complex mathematical function running through the silicon and metal inside his black plastic box he guard so jealously, like Cerberus at the gates of Hades. The poor guy. And yet, all the same, I wish the same for myself.

Why can't I be amazing? Why am I destined to be plain? Average except for the occasional outbursts of interesting thought or unique eccentricity, like my blog posts or how I sometimes say just the right thing to make a child smile. Where is my battle? My glory? My bottomless pit into which I can cast the enemies of my homeland? Is there a kit? Where do I order this stuff? Could I afford it? I'm probably too poor.

I want to be content. I pray that I will be content. There is a mission* that has been given to me and I am built to accept it. Otherwise, why exist? My arms are just strong enough, my legs just fast enough, my mind just bright enough to accomplish exactly what I was placed here for. This is not just a philosophy or some kind of feel-good platitude I feed myself to make life easier to live. It's truth. A truth I believe completely. It's just the being happy with it part that causes me pause.

Part of me is filled with disgust at these anime fakers. But there is also a simple, greedy, childish part of me too. A facet with all the characteristics of a grabbing, grubby, snot-encrusted three year old screaming for the "better" toy. I want to be remembered like Achilles, loved like Casanova, studied like Dostoyevsky, feared like Attila. I don't want paper cuts and baggy eyes for my battle scars! I want dust and sweat and blood, wiping it from my face while my enemy is struck asunder and crushed beneath my feet! I want my metal proved in the forge of battle, I want to save lives and take lives! But most of all, I want to never want any of this ever again.

I just want to be happy with what I am. I want to know I am loved the way I am, weak and pale and silly. My strength comes from the Lord, and he made me just as I should be. Someday these words will take precedence over my lust for my own pride. I pray that day comes soon.

*What's up with war metaphor? I hear it everywhere. There's got to be a better word I could use there.