Make your own damn story and take a glorious nap
Have you ever wondered why so many of the great stories of our time centre on one unfortunate protagonist—usually a boy—whose entire arc is about becoming the very thing he was born to be? Frodo Baggins is the only one who could destroy the ring. Harry Potter is the only one who could completely destroy Voldemort. Jon Snow is the Prince That Was Promised to unite the realm and defeat the Night King.
Their mission is the main thread of the dramatic story. Could Harry sacrifice himself? Could Frodo? Could Jon Snow fulfill the prophecy without turning into the Mad King and consumed by power? Isn’t it almost saint-like, that one person must die, for the realm to survive, in pursuit of removing the very force of evil determined to destabilise life itself?
Isn’t it convenient for storytelling that all these good moral things never sound scary, let alone impossible to attain? Isn’t it amazing to always believe in the character’s own fate that everything will turn out okay in the end? Then again, who would want to be entertained with efficient conflict resolution and a closely-tied ending with no room for interpretation?
Gandalf implored Frodo to take on a responsibility for which he was completely unprepared, because apparently a wizard—and literal angel—just couldn't do it himself. Dumbledore raised Harry knowing that one day, he must be killed by an orphan boy who turned to the dark side, even though Dumbledore could well prevail. In Westeros and all of the Seven Kingdoms, men take the Black to defend the Wall from a threat far north, as lords and highborns sneer on this lifetime exile disguised as performative chivalry.
Now take your average Bagas, reaching thirty, a corporate worker in the middle of Jakarta heat, rushing to make his sales meeting. He had been losing sleep many nights, a swath of darkness just won’t get away from him. Something is wrong with me, he’s assured of it. He tried emotional eating and binge watching, none of it would last more than a day. Now, what story would Bagas remind himself when he was just about to hurl towards a moving MRT car? What visions would flash into his mind before he’s seconds away from joining his late mother in heaven? Is it Samwise The Brave? Captain America? Or, just pure dread and terror?
Stories are manifestations of our deepest and most sincere hope towards mankind, and the meaning of our fate in life. The great stories emit lessons to remind us that we are capable of doing good. We are capable of being selfless, brave, and kind. Stories make us believe in the impossible acts of grace, and that after everything that we have endured, the scars taught us that we survived. We prevailed. And that’s a good thing.
Suffering is a heroic narrative. To suffer, is to become one’s own hero. To stay in pain is devotion. To absorb all the sh*t of the world, and still smile, still pray, still obey, is to walk the path towards salvation.
But, the fact is, your life isn’t written by J.K. Rowling, J.R.R Tolkien, and god’s be good, George R.R. Martin. Sometimes suffering is just suffering. It’s not a test, there’s no Dark Lord waiting to be eliminated, and surely no Iron Throne (although that would make it ten times more interesting).
The narrative structure of heroic stories must not be mistaken for the moral structure of real life. In fiction, suffering is a test of character, which requires sacrifices to reach triumph and meaning. So we learn to believe, suffering → endurance → reward. And boy, how sweet is that reward after a gruelling twenty years in the seas (and two sister wives), eh Odysseus?
No one else authored this life but you. Nobody is coming to recognise how bravely you’ve overcome it. Nobody is going out on a limb, manifesting themselves in your dreams, like Lady Galadriel is to Frodo. No one is the Chosen One, because there is no Evil One. We are all good and evil lumped together, just trying our best every day.
And that is the beauty of life: in trying and failing. In showing up and drawing deep breaths. In laughing at a very funny joke. In a tall glass of iced water after a hot, humid day on a packed bus. In twisting your ankle and going to the emergency unit, only to discover your insurance doesn't cover it. In all the ridiculous, inconvenient, ordinary things that make up a life.
The greatest story is not the great story. The story that matters is the one you make yourself. Not through some sheer belief in yourself, but through the stubborn, ordinary promise of life: to wander, to remain curious, to discover. To refuse the idea that you are alive simply to measure up to some pre-ordained, arbitrary test, or win a flex-off of who suffered more? Because surviving suffering alone does not give life meaning.
Today Bagas woke up five minutes earlier than usual. He wore a new crisp white shirt that made his teeth look pearl white. He wanted to try a new coffee shop that’s just opened in front of his office. He got a free massage voucher, which he thought he would give to the office assistant. Lord knows the man needs it. Thirty minutes later, after a quick breakfast of oatmeal and boiled eggs, Bagas packed his bag and walked to the office. He just felt like walking that day. What a great day it will be.