Thursday, 28 April 2011


I know what it is to be a hero. To go on, when every trembling part would turn back. I know what it is to fear, and in that fear wish for such escape, only to keep going on. This is what it is to be a hero, though hero I am not; I am only the frightened labourer, who plods from place to place. I am not a hero, though like a hero I have wept with grief and despair for the odds against me. No, I am not a hero.

And yet...I go on, still, though my heart trembles at even the thought of another moment on that accursed route. Is it pride, or courage, that pushes me on? I cannot say, for I do not know. I know only that were it in my hands alone, I would give it up, and yet...still, I go on.

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