Dear Satura,
Your name means sunshine, and that is all we’ve tried to be. I have wondered about what my place is, what meaning we have in this world. Growing up, we watched fairytale after fairytale of a great evil and an always – triumphant hero. I want to believe the world has such things, such stories, and that we are easily a part of it. As I find myself learning of the real villains and the real heroes, I wonder if my fantasy has been mistaken for an underwhelming ego.
What should I do when everyone has always reaffirmed I am special? We are the ‘chosen one’? A hero with no dragon. I am truly asking you.
Do we make our own dragons? Do we find out if we are truly special, made for making a difference? Made for anything? Or, have we grown past the story? Has the plot fizzled out into a mindless job just barely paying the bills?
What has the path been for, seeped in our own blood. I’ve sat highly and watched people live their lives while I sat alone on a cold throne of justice.
We are told by every inspired adult, teacher, or mentor that we are meant for something. Our voice, our pain, was meant for something. Something bigger than the terrors of our childhood. Bigger than the agony left behind in my brain. My illness makes me different from other people, it makes us special. It made you special. You have a special kind of pain that has meaning, and so we find meaning in everything that has ever happened to or existed around us.
Is this just another story we tell? Will our lives just be stuck to pages of scribbled writing and badly made art? Does the pain in standing firmly in who you are and what you believe in ever feel like anything but self – righteousness?
Have we explained away our lives? Is this always the way we coped, finding meaning in the most meaningless, painful ways of the world? Has our entire life been a coping mechanism for the traumas you faced?
Or are we something more, did we do something more? I write this letter in plea, begging for an answer I know I will not receive. I wonder if I keep living my life as if this journey will lead to a dragon, a purpose, will I feel fulfilled? Or is it right now that should bring me fulfillment, the unknown? The possibilities for dragons and stories, the possibilities of heroes being made. Or have I caved under a pressure that never existed in the first place? Have we? Do we? Will we? Who are you without me, and do you laugh reading this, knowing all will go as planned? Knowing my childish worries of a purpose are just that. A childish story I tell myself to sleep at night.
We’ve disowned friends and family based on a story you tell yourself. On a righteous, moral storyline of greatness, believing in your own folklore. I write this knowing that I currently know no other way to be, I wonder if I will learn to be something else. Am I allowed to be something else? Who will slay the dragons if I am not a hero? I wonder if we were made a writer to cope with not having dragons and fairy tales in this world. If the reason you write is because you are unsettled with your voice having no meaning but existing. Whatever version of me I become, I hope I am reading this on top of my dragon. Slayed and at rest, peacefully the journey is over. Perhaps I am not looking for dragons, perhaps you have realized long ago that what we long for is relief. An ending to a difficult story.

ProWriting Aid Style Score: 81%