Post by Luminous Robin on May 10, 2009 19:53:46 GMT -5
Being a backstage interviewer must be the worst job in the world.
Todd Grisham ambles through the backstage area. The uncertainty on his face, being sent to get a word from yet another 'newcomer' tells a story in itself, and with each step, each nameplate on each door that he glances at in his passing, the same thought crosses his mind; whether such a high risk job was worth such little pay. Much like many in the backstage area, Grisham knew next to nothing about this 'Luminous Robin'. Whether or not he was going to be a humble superstar who thanked the fans, the boss and God for this oppurtunity. Whether he was going to be a self-righteous braggart who would sooner damn the world than admit fault. Or perhaps he was just a psychopath who'd tear Grisham a new one - verbally and/or physically, for so much as knocking the door.
The company's faith in Robin was about as much as Grisham's sense of security, and the further down the corridor he found himself travelling, the further from the A-Listers, he wondered all the more just how imbalanced this 'Robin's' ego would be. Finally, he comes to it; door ajar, nameplate precise. Grisham glances to the cameraman, almost expecting assurance before he knocks. He does so, rattling his fingers as delicately as a kitten on the door. No answer. Another shared glance between cameraman and interviewer, and another knock. This time, with a hint of a prompt.
"Mr. Robin, it's Todd Grisham, FCW interviewer, we were wondering if we could get some--"
The second knock causes the door to drift ajar further, spurred on by the draught of the hallway. Finally, 'Robin' himself is seen - and Grisham finds himself pushing door to the side further just to clarify that he is indeed seeing what he is.
To say that Robin is colourful would be an understatement. What sits before them is a one man spectrum, bright yellow cargo pants that look like they've been hand-painted in a completely spontaneous series of designs and colours. Even his hair looks like it's undergone more dyes than he has hairs. There he sits, arms behind his head with his eyes closed behind a pair of shades, simply listening to the obscenely loud music pulsing through his headphones in the middle of a lockerroom barely more than a broom closet. He opens a single eye, catching a glimpse of the two men in front of him, and grins.
"'Sup?"
_______________________________________
"Ningjiao wo fu tianxia ren, xiujiao tianxia ren fu wo."
"'Better than I should wrong the world, than the world should wrong me.' - Cao Cao. From what little I've heard, that sums you up to a tee, doesn't it Matthew?"
"I took the time to listen to what you had to say about me. I even took the time to get on the internet and spend a few hours finding out just who you are, what your style is, what makes you tick. And while I could sit here, and laugh at you for your neverending stream of inadequecies, your possessiveness, your fragile ego, I honestly wonder if it's worth it."
"I doubt I'd be saying anything you haven't already heard before and tried to sweep under the rug. That just seems to be the kind of person that you are. Hoping that maybe if you tell yourself that you are the greatest fighter in the world, and that you really do deserve to stand on the podium you've put yourself on, then everything will be alright."
"But it's not, and instead, the rest of us are forced to deal with you, sitting in the corner, fingers in your ears, going 'la la la la la' every hour of the day. Don't get the wrong impression, I'm not irritated by it at all. I find it hilarious. If I could, I'd stand next to you and clap my hands and stamp my feet to give you a beat, because it's what you want."
"And who am I to stand in the way of what people want, right? After all, that's my duty as a friend. We're friends, right Matt? I reckon we could be quite good friends. What do you say?"
"You know, I'll wait for your answer. Perhaps you can use the meantime to actually get to know me a bit better before you take me out to dinner, hmm?"
"I've never heard someone profess to know 'so much' about a nobody. I suppose that's just one more field where you're a hypocrite, professing to be more adept, more knowledgeable than you truly are. For someone that claims to be completely unconcerned with me, the rage that bubbles up in the back of your throat everytime you so much as hear my name is a delightful little melody."
"For someone who claims that the 'fans', the patrons of the very business where the two of us are employed, mean nothing, you're absolutely fixated by their response, as if they're the ones driving you afterall. If I didn't know that the rest of your life was such an unrivaled failure, that's probably what I'd believe."
"You say you want to take over FCW. Then I have just one question."
"Why?"
_________________________
Grisham stands there, momentarily speechless, as if waiting for Robin to conduct the interview by himself. Robin simply pulls the headphones out of his ears, and from the sheer volume of which he's listening to them, the song blazing through the speakers is audible down to the lyric. Robin twirls the pair of them around his fingers, smirking to Todd.
"Parabola, Tool. I asked to have this as my themesong, y'know. Fantastic lyrics. Don't suppose you've ever heard of them?"
Grisham shakes his head, answering Robin's question, before remembering that 'questions' is the main reason that he's there to begin with, making an effort to interject.
"Robin, you've got--"
"'We barely remember what came before this precious moment," Robin sings along, surprisingly emotive and impressive, from an untrained ear's perspective, "We are choosing to be here, right now, hold on, stay inside. This body, holding me, reminding me that I am not alone in...this body, makes me feel, eternal, all this pain is an illu~sion."
The guitars kick into the bulk of the song, the volume practically doubling, which seems to catch both Grisham and the cameraman off guard, as if they were being played through fullsize speakers. If he's been listening to it as long as he's been there, no doubt the song's been on a loop at this volume for quite a while. The fact that the man doesn't appear to be deaf is a feat in itself. Robin laughs to himself spontaneously, tossing the headphones to the side and letting the iPod drop off his chest to the floor as he clambers to his feet, pacing around the room in irregular circles.
"There's a lot of debate over the lyrics, over what they actually mean. At first, I was thinking that it was more to do with life, with the sense of self. That we're a spirit, and 'this body holding me' is just my physical form, a shell for myself, and that all this pain is an illusion because it isn't me feeling it, it's the shell. But then I began to think. What if it's about someone else? What if it's about sex?"
Todd Grisham glances to the camera's lense, awed and confused to say the least. Robin carries on as if the pair of them aren't even there. The headphones are still blaring on the floor.
"What if 'this body holding me' is a lover? What if us choosing to be here is the idea of consent and the idea of holding on and staying inside is the intercourse itself? And that we don't remember who or what came before because we're so wrapped up in this pinnacle of raw, instinctive passion that we have no time for memories of the past or concerns for the future?"
"Robin--"
"Or childbirth," he continues, not so much as even delayed by Grisham's interjection, "The 'body holding me', the body that I'm staying inside of is the womb - and that we barely remember what came before because barely anything did come before? It's deep shit, man, you should really listen to it. Makes you fuckin' think."
"Robin," Grisham interjects one last time, finally growing a spine it seems. Robin himself pauses, glancing to Todd with a raised eyebrow, much like a startled animal, which catches Todd off guard. Grisham swallows, continuing his question. "This Friday, you have a match coming up with ring veteran Matt Hardy. I was wondering if you could tell me your thoughts on the match."
Robin glances back at Grisham, his expression still unchanged. The answer to his question couldn't have been more unexpected.
"Who?"
_________________________
"Have you really considered what it is that you've asked for? The responsibility that comes with running a company, from one who has such little experience in the management field?"
"Oh, forgive me, for a moment I was under the assumption that you actually intended on making FCW 'your own', rather than the less likely goal of turning the entire company into one giant tribute to you, Matthew Moore Hardy, eternal champion to who all proceeds and praise should go to for finally making something of your life, for showing that redhead who fucked you over, for showing your brother who was always more marketable, always more talented, always more interesting, always more handsome, always more charismatic -- need I go on?"
"This company is just that, Matt. A company. Somewhere that pays the cable bill and keeps you kneedeep in money and whores and pills and whatever else you choose to spend the cash on to pass the time between the dredges from arena to arena."
"Do you honestly think you're in a position to carry this place to keep it open, or do you expect what the rest of us do - that with you as a 'figurehead', as a 'proclaimed messiah', it will crumble horribly and leave all of us unemployed. Maybe that's just what you want. Something else to blame the rest of the world for."
"Your entire life is a comedy of errors. I'll have to try and control myself. The first time I meet you in person, I'm not sure whether I'm going to laugh or weep."
"Matt, you're a simple man. You might deny it, hiding behind your alter egos and your women and your relatives, but you're one of the simplest men I've ever encountered, with such tragically low aspirations for your life, I wonder if it's even worth me explaining where you went wrong."
"You, much like many others, seem to base everything you do around the fans. They're either your encouragement, your guiding stars, the people that got you where you deserve to be, or otherwise, they're a detriment, people that never gave you the respect you deserve and forced everyone else ahead of you and held you down and so on and so forth and waahh wahh wahh."
"Do you know what 'the fans' are, Matthew?"
"Noise."
________________________
Todd practically sputters, trying to come up with an answer. "Matt Hardy, one of the most successful tag team champions of all times. He's had a well documented singles career and--"
"Well, it can't be that well documented," explains Robin, calmly returning to his seat in the centre of the room, "because I haven't heard of him, and these accomplishments you're naming don't mean much to me either."
"But surely you don't doubt that he's going to be a threat--"
"A threat to what? My well being? My life? You know, you guys in the wrestling business are pretentious fuckers, you know that?" Robin laughs, reaching into his pocket and removing a cigarette and a lighter. Grisham goes to interject with the 'no smoking policy' the building has, but doesn't dare to, leaving Robin to happily light up. "The importance you place on your pieces of gold and leather and the way you talk about individual encounters that last maybe 20 minutes at the most as if they were the fall of Troy disgusts me." Robin takes a long drag, taking his sweet time exhaling at the ceiling as he leans back. "Matt Hardy's either going to be a good fighter and will win, or he'll lose. Who he is, what he's done, what he wants, don't mean a damn thing to me."
Not satisfied with the evasive answer, Todd tries to dig deeper. "Do you have a gameplan for your upcoming match?"
"No." And that's all he answers with.
"What can FCW expect from Luminous Robin in the future?"
"Dunno." And that's all he answers with.
There's a pause, with Todd still balancing the concept of switching career sometime soon. "Do you have your eyes on the currently vacant FCW Championship anytime soon? Do you see yourself as a serious contender for the gold?"
Robin doesn't even answer at first, taking the sweet time to enjoy yet another drag, practically taking the cigarette to the butt. As he exhales, he smirks at Todd, carelessly flicking the ash over his shoulder. "What did you say your name was again, kid?"
Grisham sputters again, slightly taken aback by being called 'kid' by someone he's the senior to. "Todd Grisham, I'm the backstage interviewer for FCW."
"Are you a serious competitor to the FCW Championship?"
A long pause. Grisham glances back to the cameraman, who simply shrugs in return. Robin's face is like a cheshire cat, lapping up the situation he's created. "Well, no, I don't think so, because I'm not a wrest--"
"No, you're not, and you never will be. It doesn't matter what you are, whether you're a wrestler or an interviewer or a fuckin' postman. You've got no self confidence." Robin flicks the entire butt to the side. It rebounds off the wall, landing close to his discarded iPod, which he's quick to pick up and reapply. "You're too busy trying to run your statistics and standards and juggle them amongst the collective ego and imbalanced priorities of this entire company that you've forgotten one little thing."
Robin walks up to Grisham, smirking at him as he reaches down towards him. Todd yelps, having expected an attack of some kind, but reacts with the kind of shocked relief when he sees Robin smiling genuinely at him, the wrestler having taken the interviewer by the hand, firmly shaking it between them. "You're a man. I'm a man. Matt Hardy is a man. In the eyes of the universe, we're equally insignificant, and a championship, no matter how much you glorify it - is merely an object."
He releases the hand, marching out into the corridor and leaving the two workers to their own thoughts, humming his themesong to himself with each step. A championship was just an object, he told himself, and when he wanted it, he'd obtain the means to take it.
For now, though...just who 'is' Matt Hardy?
________________________
"You're not familiar with the fourth wall are you, Matt? Would it be that hard for you simply to get into the ring and imagine those ropes as shooting into the heavens? The fans have absolutely no effect on me, and they'll only affect you if you let them, so once again, you only have yourself to blame."
"The fans didn't turn me into a professional wrestler, I did. The fans didn't clue me in on the best moment to end the match, that was my call. No one in the crowd held me back and left me to fall everytime my opponent caught me off guard. Those are my victories, and those are my downcomings."
"How arrogant of you to only take credit for the good. And how pitiful of you to see the need to sacrifice your dignity for such meagre accomplishments."
"I'd tell you to 'be a man', but no one wants to be a man, do they?"
"No, being a man is just a given. It's what you are. It's what all of us are. There's nothing special, there's nothing defining about it, it's run of the mill average, all we can be. No, everyone wants to be a hero. Someone whose name will echo throughout all ages, and whose accomplishments are so vast, so unlikely, so unfeasibly impressive that future generations will wonder if you even existed at all."
"What is a man compared to a hero? What is a man compared to a chicken, or a dog, or a worm, or a variety of other 'lesser creatures' that we've arrogantly called ourselves better than in our rush to justify some kind of purpose. But we're all hollow. We're all aimless. So we latch onto anything we can to give us direction to stop us blowing our brains out."
"If man is the middle ground between a worm and a hero, then perhaps humanity is a detriment to itself."
"Are you a man, Matthew?"
Todd Grisham ambles through the backstage area. The uncertainty on his face, being sent to get a word from yet another 'newcomer' tells a story in itself, and with each step, each nameplate on each door that he glances at in his passing, the same thought crosses his mind; whether such a high risk job was worth such little pay. Much like many in the backstage area, Grisham knew next to nothing about this 'Luminous Robin'. Whether or not he was going to be a humble superstar who thanked the fans, the boss and God for this oppurtunity. Whether he was going to be a self-righteous braggart who would sooner damn the world than admit fault. Or perhaps he was just a psychopath who'd tear Grisham a new one - verbally and/or physically, for so much as knocking the door.
The company's faith in Robin was about as much as Grisham's sense of security, and the further down the corridor he found himself travelling, the further from the A-Listers, he wondered all the more just how imbalanced this 'Robin's' ego would be. Finally, he comes to it; door ajar, nameplate precise. Grisham glances to the cameraman, almost expecting assurance before he knocks. He does so, rattling his fingers as delicately as a kitten on the door. No answer. Another shared glance between cameraman and interviewer, and another knock. This time, with a hint of a prompt.
"Mr. Robin, it's Todd Grisham, FCW interviewer, we were wondering if we could get some--"
The second knock causes the door to drift ajar further, spurred on by the draught of the hallway. Finally, 'Robin' himself is seen - and Grisham finds himself pushing door to the side further just to clarify that he is indeed seeing what he is.
To say that Robin is colourful would be an understatement. What sits before them is a one man spectrum, bright yellow cargo pants that look like they've been hand-painted in a completely spontaneous series of designs and colours. Even his hair looks like it's undergone more dyes than he has hairs. There he sits, arms behind his head with his eyes closed behind a pair of shades, simply listening to the obscenely loud music pulsing through his headphones in the middle of a lockerroom barely more than a broom closet. He opens a single eye, catching a glimpse of the two men in front of him, and grins.
"'Sup?"
_______________________________________
"Ningjiao wo fu tianxia ren, xiujiao tianxia ren fu wo."
"'Better than I should wrong the world, than the world should wrong me.' - Cao Cao. From what little I've heard, that sums you up to a tee, doesn't it Matthew?"
"I took the time to listen to what you had to say about me. I even took the time to get on the internet and spend a few hours finding out just who you are, what your style is, what makes you tick. And while I could sit here, and laugh at you for your neverending stream of inadequecies, your possessiveness, your fragile ego, I honestly wonder if it's worth it."
"I doubt I'd be saying anything you haven't already heard before and tried to sweep under the rug. That just seems to be the kind of person that you are. Hoping that maybe if you tell yourself that you are the greatest fighter in the world, and that you really do deserve to stand on the podium you've put yourself on, then everything will be alright."
"But it's not, and instead, the rest of us are forced to deal with you, sitting in the corner, fingers in your ears, going 'la la la la la' every hour of the day. Don't get the wrong impression, I'm not irritated by it at all. I find it hilarious. If I could, I'd stand next to you and clap my hands and stamp my feet to give you a beat, because it's what you want."
"And who am I to stand in the way of what people want, right? After all, that's my duty as a friend. We're friends, right Matt? I reckon we could be quite good friends. What do you say?"
"You know, I'll wait for your answer. Perhaps you can use the meantime to actually get to know me a bit better before you take me out to dinner, hmm?"
"I've never heard someone profess to know 'so much' about a nobody. I suppose that's just one more field where you're a hypocrite, professing to be more adept, more knowledgeable than you truly are. For someone that claims to be completely unconcerned with me, the rage that bubbles up in the back of your throat everytime you so much as hear my name is a delightful little melody."
"For someone who claims that the 'fans', the patrons of the very business where the two of us are employed, mean nothing, you're absolutely fixated by their response, as if they're the ones driving you afterall. If I didn't know that the rest of your life was such an unrivaled failure, that's probably what I'd believe."
"You say you want to take over FCW. Then I have just one question."
"Why?"
_________________________
Grisham stands there, momentarily speechless, as if waiting for Robin to conduct the interview by himself. Robin simply pulls the headphones out of his ears, and from the sheer volume of which he's listening to them, the song blazing through the speakers is audible down to the lyric. Robin twirls the pair of them around his fingers, smirking to Todd.
"Parabola, Tool. I asked to have this as my themesong, y'know. Fantastic lyrics. Don't suppose you've ever heard of them?"
Grisham shakes his head, answering Robin's question, before remembering that 'questions' is the main reason that he's there to begin with, making an effort to interject.
"Robin, you've got--"
"'We barely remember what came before this precious moment," Robin sings along, surprisingly emotive and impressive, from an untrained ear's perspective, "We are choosing to be here, right now, hold on, stay inside. This body, holding me, reminding me that I am not alone in...this body, makes me feel, eternal, all this pain is an illu~sion."
The guitars kick into the bulk of the song, the volume practically doubling, which seems to catch both Grisham and the cameraman off guard, as if they were being played through fullsize speakers. If he's been listening to it as long as he's been there, no doubt the song's been on a loop at this volume for quite a while. The fact that the man doesn't appear to be deaf is a feat in itself. Robin laughs to himself spontaneously, tossing the headphones to the side and letting the iPod drop off his chest to the floor as he clambers to his feet, pacing around the room in irregular circles.
"There's a lot of debate over the lyrics, over what they actually mean. At first, I was thinking that it was more to do with life, with the sense of self. That we're a spirit, and 'this body holding me' is just my physical form, a shell for myself, and that all this pain is an illusion because it isn't me feeling it, it's the shell. But then I began to think. What if it's about someone else? What if it's about sex?"
Todd Grisham glances to the camera's lense, awed and confused to say the least. Robin carries on as if the pair of them aren't even there. The headphones are still blaring on the floor.
"What if 'this body holding me' is a lover? What if us choosing to be here is the idea of consent and the idea of holding on and staying inside is the intercourse itself? And that we don't remember who or what came before because we're so wrapped up in this pinnacle of raw, instinctive passion that we have no time for memories of the past or concerns for the future?"
"Robin--"
"Or childbirth," he continues, not so much as even delayed by Grisham's interjection, "The 'body holding me', the body that I'm staying inside of is the womb - and that we barely remember what came before because barely anything did come before? It's deep shit, man, you should really listen to it. Makes you fuckin' think."
"Robin," Grisham interjects one last time, finally growing a spine it seems. Robin himself pauses, glancing to Todd with a raised eyebrow, much like a startled animal, which catches Todd off guard. Grisham swallows, continuing his question. "This Friday, you have a match coming up with ring veteran Matt Hardy. I was wondering if you could tell me your thoughts on the match."
Robin glances back at Grisham, his expression still unchanged. The answer to his question couldn't have been more unexpected.
"Who?"
_________________________
"Have you really considered what it is that you've asked for? The responsibility that comes with running a company, from one who has such little experience in the management field?"
"Oh, forgive me, for a moment I was under the assumption that you actually intended on making FCW 'your own', rather than the less likely goal of turning the entire company into one giant tribute to you, Matthew Moore Hardy, eternal champion to who all proceeds and praise should go to for finally making something of your life, for showing that redhead who fucked you over, for showing your brother who was always more marketable, always more talented, always more interesting, always more handsome, always more charismatic -- need I go on?"
"This company is just that, Matt. A company. Somewhere that pays the cable bill and keeps you kneedeep in money and whores and pills and whatever else you choose to spend the cash on to pass the time between the dredges from arena to arena."
"Do you honestly think you're in a position to carry this place to keep it open, or do you expect what the rest of us do - that with you as a 'figurehead', as a 'proclaimed messiah', it will crumble horribly and leave all of us unemployed. Maybe that's just what you want. Something else to blame the rest of the world for."
"Your entire life is a comedy of errors. I'll have to try and control myself. The first time I meet you in person, I'm not sure whether I'm going to laugh or weep."
"Matt, you're a simple man. You might deny it, hiding behind your alter egos and your women and your relatives, but you're one of the simplest men I've ever encountered, with such tragically low aspirations for your life, I wonder if it's even worth me explaining where you went wrong."
"You, much like many others, seem to base everything you do around the fans. They're either your encouragement, your guiding stars, the people that got you where you deserve to be, or otherwise, they're a detriment, people that never gave you the respect you deserve and forced everyone else ahead of you and held you down and so on and so forth and waahh wahh wahh."
"Do you know what 'the fans' are, Matthew?"
"Noise."
________________________
Todd practically sputters, trying to come up with an answer. "Matt Hardy, one of the most successful tag team champions of all times. He's had a well documented singles career and--"
"Well, it can't be that well documented," explains Robin, calmly returning to his seat in the centre of the room, "because I haven't heard of him, and these accomplishments you're naming don't mean much to me either."
"But surely you don't doubt that he's going to be a threat--"
"A threat to what? My well being? My life? You know, you guys in the wrestling business are pretentious fuckers, you know that?" Robin laughs, reaching into his pocket and removing a cigarette and a lighter. Grisham goes to interject with the 'no smoking policy' the building has, but doesn't dare to, leaving Robin to happily light up. "The importance you place on your pieces of gold and leather and the way you talk about individual encounters that last maybe 20 minutes at the most as if they were the fall of Troy disgusts me." Robin takes a long drag, taking his sweet time exhaling at the ceiling as he leans back. "Matt Hardy's either going to be a good fighter and will win, or he'll lose. Who he is, what he's done, what he wants, don't mean a damn thing to me."
Not satisfied with the evasive answer, Todd tries to dig deeper. "Do you have a gameplan for your upcoming match?"
"No." And that's all he answers with.
"What can FCW expect from Luminous Robin in the future?"
"Dunno." And that's all he answers with.
There's a pause, with Todd still balancing the concept of switching career sometime soon. "Do you have your eyes on the currently vacant FCW Championship anytime soon? Do you see yourself as a serious contender for the gold?"
Robin doesn't even answer at first, taking the sweet time to enjoy yet another drag, practically taking the cigarette to the butt. As he exhales, he smirks at Todd, carelessly flicking the ash over his shoulder. "What did you say your name was again, kid?"
Grisham sputters again, slightly taken aback by being called 'kid' by someone he's the senior to. "Todd Grisham, I'm the backstage interviewer for FCW."
"Are you a serious competitor to the FCW Championship?"
A long pause. Grisham glances back to the cameraman, who simply shrugs in return. Robin's face is like a cheshire cat, lapping up the situation he's created. "Well, no, I don't think so, because I'm not a wrest--"
"No, you're not, and you never will be. It doesn't matter what you are, whether you're a wrestler or an interviewer or a fuckin' postman. You've got no self confidence." Robin flicks the entire butt to the side. It rebounds off the wall, landing close to his discarded iPod, which he's quick to pick up and reapply. "You're too busy trying to run your statistics and standards and juggle them amongst the collective ego and imbalanced priorities of this entire company that you've forgotten one little thing."
Robin walks up to Grisham, smirking at him as he reaches down towards him. Todd yelps, having expected an attack of some kind, but reacts with the kind of shocked relief when he sees Robin smiling genuinely at him, the wrestler having taken the interviewer by the hand, firmly shaking it between them. "You're a man. I'm a man. Matt Hardy is a man. In the eyes of the universe, we're equally insignificant, and a championship, no matter how much you glorify it - is merely an object."
He releases the hand, marching out into the corridor and leaving the two workers to their own thoughts, humming his themesong to himself with each step. A championship was just an object, he told himself, and when he wanted it, he'd obtain the means to take it.
For now, though...just who 'is' Matt Hardy?
________________________
"You're not familiar with the fourth wall are you, Matt? Would it be that hard for you simply to get into the ring and imagine those ropes as shooting into the heavens? The fans have absolutely no effect on me, and they'll only affect you if you let them, so once again, you only have yourself to blame."
"The fans didn't turn me into a professional wrestler, I did. The fans didn't clue me in on the best moment to end the match, that was my call. No one in the crowd held me back and left me to fall everytime my opponent caught me off guard. Those are my victories, and those are my downcomings."
"How arrogant of you to only take credit for the good. And how pitiful of you to see the need to sacrifice your dignity for such meagre accomplishments."
"I'd tell you to 'be a man', but no one wants to be a man, do they?"
"No, being a man is just a given. It's what you are. It's what all of us are. There's nothing special, there's nothing defining about it, it's run of the mill average, all we can be. No, everyone wants to be a hero. Someone whose name will echo throughout all ages, and whose accomplishments are so vast, so unlikely, so unfeasibly impressive that future generations will wonder if you even existed at all."
"What is a man compared to a hero? What is a man compared to a chicken, or a dog, or a worm, or a variety of other 'lesser creatures' that we've arrogantly called ourselves better than in our rush to justify some kind of purpose. But we're all hollow. We're all aimless. So we latch onto anything we can to give us direction to stop us blowing our brains out."
"If man is the middle ground between a worm and a hero, then perhaps humanity is a detriment to itself."
"Are you a man, Matthew?"
