Life as A Hero

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(Philosocom Directory on Heroism)

The Burden of the Unsung Hero

Life can be solitary confinement when you're the one pulling others from the abyss. My efforts to save have, ironically, alienated me from the rest of the world. For it is within this world, riddled with injustice, that my acts of salvation have yielded no rewards, no calls of gratitude from those I've touched, or even those who knew me. It appears the pit of despair is a private affair, a societal taboo best relegated to the secretive halls of mental health professionals.

Were it not for this constant, gnawing void within me, I might never have intervened in their distress. Saving, after all, is a temporary respite in the face of inevitable mortality. Yet, it serves its purpose: to prevent an untimely demise at the hands of the very people whom I saved.

I possess an undeniable fortitude, having rescued seven souls without a single hand extended in my own emotional support. However, my days of salvation are over. Seven is a number I deem sufficient.

They speak of heroes living long enough to become villains. It is a fate I meticulously avoid by purposefully avoiding society. People, it seems, simply do not comprehend, and thus, life continues its lonely march, as if I never saved.

My deeds were undeniably good, yet heroic acts often go unrewarded in this shallow existence. This life, a perpetual burden, I navigate by working on Philosocom, a wellspring of much-needed meaning that helps keep my void away.

Had I not saved, I would be a lesser man than I already am. I simply did not have the heartlessness to forsake them. My allegiance will always lie with goodness, never straying into villainy.

The void persists, a constant, unwelcome companion, never entirely leaving me. Yet, I embrace it, for it is this very void, this very depravity, that compels me to act, to work. My tragic existence, while never reaching full satisfaction, allows me to work on this empire, helping people as a result.

No matter my actions, the void inside of me remains a looming presence, a stark reminder that only specific endeavors, like writing, truly sate its hunger.

Saving brought a certain satisfaction, although it was a disheartening one at the same time. It's difficult for me to rejoice in a world that pushes individuals to surrender their own lives. Yet, the very act of saving – of being a hero – was profoundly gratifying. However, their desperate desire for an early end altered my perception of this world, probably to a state of no return.

A Solitary Path to Rectification

Saving them transformed me; it redeemed me from my own darkness. All that remains, however, is an emptiness I tirelessly attempt to fill by writing articles, all in the pursuit of world rectification.

I feel compelled to write because it's one of the few activities that offers any solace in a world I perceive as utterly vain.

If this world compels people to take their own lives, why should I enjoy it too much? It... it just feels wrong, you know? Every day, people take away their own lives, succumbing to despair. The mere thought of it destroys my desire to enjoy this world.

Even the mere thought of sitting in a cafe is hard on me, even though I might do it from time to time. However, it would not be as fun when the thought of people surrendering their lives throughout the world, haunting me, making me pity humanity for its many misfortunes.

Life is suffering, and to truly live is to carve meaning amidst that suffering. No one will congratulate me for saving lives, and even if a trophy were offered, I'd likely decline, for I stand against such tokens. No amount of gratitude would anyway spare me of the deep void inside of me, that compels me to do acts of good to make it go away.

Life as a hero is harsh, and requires constant bravery to go through it. To dare to live. I am glad they live, but the hero is often left in solitude. People, it seems, don't know how to approach a real-life hero, choosing instead to avoid such unique types.

Real heroes don't wear capes; they wield no superpowers. Real heroes are strong, brave, and dare to tread where others fear.

I boldly saved seven people, myself included, from the deep pitfall of despair. I bestowed upon them, and upon myself, hope – a reason to persevere despite their respective trials and tribulations.

The act of saving was traumatic, yet I conquered the PTSD long ago. I no longer suffer its symptoms. I am healed from my sacrifice, but largely alone, with only few to continue partaking in my life's journey.

And in this age of Artificial Intelligence, people's interest in reading reduces, as writers are the first to be replaced by these language models, like ChatGPT. I did a great deal of good, and this good has left me largely isolated. People do not expect you to do good. They expect you to cater to them instead, and when you choose the truth that lies deep in your heart, you are left alone, for solitude is the hallmark of the truth-seeker.

People don't expect such goodness; they deem it too good to be true. However, every rule has its exception, and I am that exception.

I saved, never seeking compensation. I saved because it was the right thing to do. No perspective can objectively alter the fact that saving lives was the moral/right action. Saving people is always the right thing to do; helping people is always the right thing to do, and so I did.

I have a deep need in me to write, so I write, even if few read nowadays. I have a deep need to express the truth that lies deep within my heart, and I live accordingly to that truth.

Doing what is right keeps the massive void within me at bay, which is why I persist in doing good.

It is this very void that compels me to be a good man, an unsung hero, an unexpected savior to those in need. Yet, the mentioning of my heroic deeds intimidates and repels others. It's something people are unprepared to confront. They don't know what to say, how to react.

I honestly don't blame them for staying away from me, as a result, in a world where it is expected to help only yourself.

I am accustomed to the solitude of the unrelenting altruist, to extended periods of that are spent largely by myself. I carve meaning within the void so that I bear its weight more easily.

I simply wish this void would vanish, so I continue to do good. I carry this void as a burden. No matter how much good I do, the void persistently returns. I am just glad that, by doing good, the void fades, even if only for a while.

But at least I know how to temporarily banish it: by being a good person and performing acts of kindness that help rectify this twisted world.