We imagine we’re heroes in the safety of our minds, rescuing imaginary damsels, speaking hard truths in the faces of fantasied tyrants, willing to sacrifice everything in ancient battles for right and wrong while we sacrifice our souls to lies. Yes, we all live lies. I know. I’m just a dreamer. When a real call to fight came, I suddenly lost that wonderfully clear perspective hindsight provides. There was no right or wrong, only fear. I ran. Little wonder. I can’t even look my boss in the eye. The princess in the picture books never got a scratch from that nasty dragon, the beast somehow successfully managing the delicate procedure of undressing the captive with those terrible claws. Perhaps the monster had help. Why was she always undressed in those pictures anyway? Whatever reason, she’s never drawn torn up, her guts hanging out, her blood flowing down the cobblestones.
And what I saw, silhouetted as the pale moonlight passed through the fog, that manlike beast—I can find no more safety in my dreams.
Tale Told 