Really?

It's not always hard to be a fan, of course; when you're a little kid it's the easiest thing in the world. At a point in your life when you pretty much can't do anything - as adults will hasten to remind you, saying things like " you can't drive a car until you're older," or, "human beings can't see through walls, no matter how hard they look at them," - Superman can do absolutely anything and everything. (Actually, I've seen Superman drive a car. And I bet noone can do it better than him)And the things he can do are of particular interest, it's fair to say, to little kids. For example: when was the last time you really wanted to set something on fire by just looking at it? Or really, really wished you could fly? Not "boy, wouldn't it be great if I got a surprise upgrade to business class" fly, or "maybe I can use my frequent flyer miles to score a trip to a friend" fly, but just, you know, fly. Probably not as recently - and certainly not as devoutly - as any five-year-old boy you know.

Superman is also just plain good, and when you're still at an age when things come in lots of simple good and bad categories, he fits pretty easily into that sort of framework. Think about the movies in both of them ; where much is made of Superman never lying. When you're at an age when you're looking for moral absolutes to admire, Superman's way up there, up in the sky.

But things change; seasons pass, and tender youth gives way to bitter experience. and all the things about Superman that were so admirable then become, well, a little grating. Everything is - or at least feels - much more complicated, and the simplicity of Superman's moral code seems a bit like kid stuff at a time when it's much harder to figure out right from wrong. And Superman himself? Polite, well-behaved, always getting along with the authorities? Not particularly cool, at a time when cool matters a lot; other heroes take center stage, ones that are a little more...rock and roll.


And now, in adulthood?
I'll be honest: even though it's been some time since I've been a teenager, I still love the idea of Superman if not him.

Ever since I can go back in time, I have had my heroes. People I have looked upto. People who inspire and not make me negotiate. People who have battled with the odds, taken the lone path and succeeded, in more ways than one. Hero-worshipping has been an inherent part of me I guess, extraordinaries don't happen to people everyday nor have they to me; the very few who have made the difference have become MY heroes. Thus explaining my obsession with Superman. (I call it pure faith).

But they have also made my worst fears come true, that the closer you get to a person ; the more you know about them, something will let you down. Knowingly , unknowingly or due to my elevated expectations, they have let me down and left me dejected, taken away my hopes , my faith.


I thought the worst thing to do is to let down your hero , but even worst is getting your heart broken by one. Someone who meant perfect in the dictionary of human beings , up there in your eyes, the heart aches to bring em down and the mind says maybe they never deserved that place.

I can ridicule everything by saying I make the wrong choice every time or that it was me who decided to give them that place in life and its completely fair if I decide to take it back. But then where does my hope in faith go? Shattered into a million pieces? Because they couldn't carry the burden of being a Hero or it'ws too juvenile and frivilous of me to expect so?

I want to go back and read " Why the World Needs Superman" But a certain part of me is way too angry and way too let down to confirm the faith again.

There are many unspoken realities that we dismiss all because we are too chicken to deal with it.But,does fantasy take over?More often than not,its just reality that strikes back at us harder than ever.
Life can't always be a bed of roses and I embrace that.
It's alright to dream,but just make sure that you're not living in a dream.That's what matters I guess.



Maybe in this real world, there are no real heroes; just a desperate need to believe in one.



"Does the World Need a Superman?"


I don't know.

Dethroned

It is lonely. Ironic, however, they wouldn't notice. They, with their complaints of starvation, devastation; they, mired in the fear of imminent extinction, shouldering the burden of sin; they, looking skyward for His guidance and shuddering at the merest thought of His presence.

But they seek comfort in each other's gaze, catching joy (however fleeting it may be) on the waves of their speech, fulfillment etched in company.

Below, the day has been long, made longer with the reluctant dimming of the afternoon, fading into evening. And as the night glimmers, He settles back, wearily, to rest.

The air chokes, humid - heavy with expectations. It's the end of another disappointment.

And He watches.

None of it's turned out, really, as He had planned.

He sees them now as they hurry, tracing paths that swirl and loop, twirling until their frantic activity blurs. Their orb glows, and He is mesmerized for the brevity of a butterfly's flutter. Enamored with their own glassy evanescence, they build towering monuments of metal, sculpting the majestic peaks and valleys of bridges, moving earth. Rivers flow under their direction, cutting and sharp; they design pictures to represent landscapes, images to replace strokes of art.

They won't remember Him for another few hours, He knows, and He wonders momentarily if they ever really remember Him at all.

They clutch trinkets, bejeweled and sparkling. Lovely. But trinkets do not build castles, cannot imitate fate.

It's not enough, now, to hope.

He sees the reflection from a woman's mirror, her vacant expression flickering, then vanishing. Vaguely, He hears the shrill shriek of a siren, desperate.

It wasn't always like this, He thinks. Before, back when He longed to coexist with His created universe, meshing mortal and eternal, when He wished to be the light of harmony - He foolishly imagined they would listen.

It hardly matters now, though, that He set out to do good, that He envisioned companions to brighten His empty existence. These companions clung to each other instead, and isolation found Him again, gaping and harsh. Nor is there any significance in the sapphire sphere He sees before him, pulsating with the life He birthed - it is no more His than it is its own, no more rare or beautiful than just another tainted perfection, torn carelessly, then haphazardly stitched back into existence.

He is all too familiar with sacrifice, knows far too well the taste of loss. And He laughs bitterly, for even He can no longer recognize the warped illusion that was once His passion, for even He has lost sight of its once-brilliant splendor.

He dares not admit they frighten him.

But they have their civilizations, complexities woven and tangled, mistakes. They have each other, but their brothers are enemies and they construct walls of mistrust, only to tear them down in fits of rage that He cannot comprehend. Justice, potent when laced with the shadows of greed, is far too powerful a temptation, and they cannot defy it - they do not try to resist.

They slaughter for pride, savoring a short-lived vengeance.

He doesn't understand.

He sees hunger written in their strained interactions, pleas for compassion. Empathy.

A girl lies under her covers, strands of hair visible around a pillow, breathing unevenly. He watches, and He knows she is broken.

In the darkness, they're weak.

They look up to Him, now, eyes gleaming, whispering a prayer before retiring - hope resting on an unshakable faith. He watches, and He sees their blindness. In the clarity, they are no more than children - bereft, searching. And just as He did, they ask for answers.

They, who can now control survival, treating life as a craft to bend to their every whim; they, who overlooked caution to pursue glory; they, who saw the end of His hopes - they are lonely.

But He can no longer call them His, and - no - He doesn't know how to help. He is lost as well, grasping, confused and despairing.

He watches the trembling of a little boy's eyelids in slumber, and He knows nothing.

In the stillness, He watches them.

Their flaws are His flaws, their errors traceable back to His hands. They are neither perfection nor harmony, but neither is He.

And there is hope etched in company.