In my youth I'd been bought a series of children's books called "Sweet Pickles," set in a town inhabited by twenty-six anthropomorphized animals sorted by the first letter of their name. Each of them had their own glaring personality flaw which inevitably set them at odds with the other twenty-five. The book I recall most vividly was "Xerus Won't Allow It," in which a dumpy humanoid African ground squirrel named "X-Rating Xerus" smacks rule-bearing signs and labels on every object and location in an attempt to make all dangers explicit and all things regulated. Most characters begin to take them seriously, as normal people are wont to do; this drives a few of the other characters to revenge in the form of a gigantic sign forbidding Xerus to write any more rules...Which—Xerus being a character in a children's book—she takes seriously herself, solving the matter.

I've long since learned that such resolutions don't exist in real life. I know this in particular because I go to a laundromat owned by the real X-Rating Xerus. She hasn't learned her lesson, as you'd imagine; the place has signs on every surface warning people not to sit on the folding tables, or that their laundry may be removed at any time by a waiting customer, or that they can't use the change machines unless they're washing clothes. The only solace I have is that she isn't allowed to post those signs outside of her own place of business...Yet.

Whenever I go there to wash my clothes, the signs create for me an atmosphere that stinks of presumption. I'm beholden to my unseen oppressor, who takes my money without ever being present to do it herself. How can an African ground squirrel be so cruel? Simply enough: there exist Others who have wronged her. They have made her afraid. She does not desire to be wronged again. Acting out of fear, she will do what she believes will prevent her from being wronged.

This is, I'll admit, to be expected; most people have an unrealistic approach to dealing with those who wrong them. Some would even argue there's no "right" way. I don't know about that; I can say that I'm mostly conscious of the way I deal with people and not much more.

It is a vast difference from the way I want to deal with people.

A stern, white-haired man with a perpetual snarl on his face pilots a giant katana-wielding robot. He stares down his enemy—a jolly, bearded old man (actually an alien) who pilots his own robot wielding a gigantic, rocket-propelled ball and chain. While this old man's theme—accompanied by Japanese men singing "Ware koso WAAAAA"—plays in the background (one, I might add, of the most addicting videogame themes ever written), the white-haired man steps forward and proclaims, rather loudly

我が名は ゼンガー! ゼンガー・ゾンボルト!! 悪を裁つ...剣なり!!

("My name is Zengar! ZENGAAAAR ZOMBOLT!! The sword that...CLEAVES EVIL!!")

His robot swings its sword to one side; suddenly it expands into this colossal BASTARD SWORD not unlike that of Guts's from Berserk...It hefts the blade upward, blasting into the air an uncountable distance on wings of energy—suddenly drops downward, out of frame, a violent yell on its "face" ("can robots even have that sort of expression?" some people must wonder).
Cut to the robot, and the blade, on the ground, the second item firmly planted through the center of his enemy. The old man is allowed a few seconds to mumble something in his apparent death throes about regret SHORTLY BEFORE HIS MACHINE EXPLODES

I'm in that laundromat one night, trying to make change of a one-dollar bill for the dryer. One change machine is out of order; the other refuses to accept the bill despite a hundred scanning and rescanning attempts. three different dollar bills are tried; nothing. I have almost absolute certainty that it does not want a dollar bill; to the machine's dark soul, that denomination looks too meager. No, it wants the five-dollar bill that, somehow, is sensed in my wallet. I am determined not to let that bastard have it; No way in HELL will it be served in that way. I have no interest in bringing home a wallet heavy with quarters just to serve the whims of some presumptuous bastard of a change machine in an equally presumptuous laundromat.

Yet the dollar bills refuse to scan. Anger or no, DIGNITY or no, the machine refuses...So, in the end, sullen and exhausted, I end up giving it the five dollar bill. As expected. it scans the first time without complaint. Defeated, aggravated, stripped of dignity, I drag my clothing and my heavy wallet home about an hour later.

This isn't the first recent instance of personal failure in my life, either; to yield is all I've done, lately. I see it as dishonorable and undignified—and every time I'm forced to, I feel as if somehow...Something is being taken from me. You can imagine that it hasn't been good for me, taking things that way, like some sort of misguided modern-day Don Quixote. People insist that accepting failure is neccesary to continue living.
I'm not so certain. I've learned that it's possible to be too accepting.

I had lived, at one point, for two months in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was during my stay there that I'd learned the folly of surrender. The people around me insisted that I try to "survive" in my situation, rather than strive for something greater. Albuquerque, to me, became a city full of enemy P.O.Ws in the war against mediocrity; most of them had fallen prey to their lot in life as store clerks, as retail, as menial labor. Nowhere among them did I even see suggested that they wanted to head somewhere grand with their time on this planet. Even their local TV ads hung heavy with self-shame: at no time did one see "Albuquerque" or even "New Mexico" mentioned save for in addresses—as if they were looking for an excuse to avoid acknowledging that they were there, in that place.

I'd asked them: "what's the point of survival if there's nothing to survive for?" They couldn't give me an answer. The sad fact of humanity is that comfort can weaken; though humanity can adapt to the harshest of situations, it can adapt to situations where little hope is left.

The media we grow up on presents us (perhaps through little fault of its own) with the ideal that Life is supposed to be more worthwhile than it actually is: every day a splendid challenge with every participant gaining at least One Worthwhile Thing. Even through the muck of the media's preconception and presumption, this media grants us a window to a world we actually want to be a part of—showing us that there are dreams and hopes out there for people like us to grab hold of. Dead ends should rightfully be a distraction; we certainly can't afford to be distracted for long with the unacceptably small amount of time we're given on this Earth...So if we trip and fall, we must get moving again as soon as we can, because It's important for us to keep moving—If we shut our eyes for even a second, we might miss our chance...Never knowing that we'd ever have had a chance in that brief instant we were looking the other way.

I'd kept my eyes closed for far too long—so often so that I fear I'll never move anywhere unless I stay in motion somehow. It's bad enough for me that the last thirteen years of my life were spent holding myself back (for the most part, anyway); I'd only be worse off if I missed any more. I'm especially frightened of the idea that I could seal myself away again, this time working at some meaningless, dead-end job somewhere for the rest of my life: choosing to act friendly to people whose natures I despise. I've known too many people who are in those situations as it is, whose only vent for hatred of their situations and selves are in places like this.
No, there's no honor for me in embracing a life where survival through stagnation is the only means...Not the kind that I'd ever want to live for.

To take action with no risk of failure, as all goals are certain; being able to walk a path with no tinge of regret, as one knows who the enemy is. That's the life I want to live. Why can't I be a Super Robot Wars character, someone who needs only bravery and a sense of justice to exist—solving his/her/its problems with grand, decisive destruction of the problem in question, instead of whimpering compromise? Why can't I be Zengar Zombolt and CLEAVE that change machine in two? Where is MY warrior's life? WHERE IS MY GIANT ROBOT?

I don't want to settle for a Chinatown or an End of Evangelion sort of life, fated to live with a "punch-out" ending where I'm damned to fail. I'd rather not believe that my life is going to play out as some sort of whimpering tragedy; If life's going to drag me down, I want to go down fighting, bravely. But bravery is a difficult concept to grasp when you've lived with panic and worry and guilt for all of your life, cursing yourself for every time you have to step aside, paralyzed with horror over the notion of What Might Be.

I've begun to learn that to live with others is to respect their fear without receiving theirs in turn; to truly live is to face your own fear and understand it. Coming to this understanding, you can gain the power of 勇気, and all forces standing against you shall feel hubris.
Certainly, I've managed to keep myself alive in the wake of all of my implanted fears; that would be indeed be proof enough of my courage if that alone were all that was needed. But courage requires vigilance—and as much as I'm loath to admit, the past I've tried to remove myself from will be upon me soon.
If hope is at its darkest and it will not yield, I'll rise up and strike it down myself; even if it causes me harm to drive it off, it must be done no matter the cost.

I've waited far too long to become the person I've always wanted to be, to arrive in the place where I truly belong. Nothing should come between me and my Heart's Desire. Soon I hope to be headed for that place. Damn the fear and the pain that gets in my way.

So—

WHO'S WITH ME?