Elegy For The Unwritten

They say,

you’ll never be the hero in someone else’s story

unless you’re the hero in yours.

Sounds poetic, doesn’t it?

But life’s not poetry.

It’s not cinema either.

Life is art —

and like most art,

you only get valued posthumous.

What matters isn’t whether you’re the hero

in someone else’s fairytale.

What matters isn’t even

whether you’re the hero in your own.

What matters is the story.

The goddamn story.

The one you live

like a protagonist too flawed for redemption arcs.

The one where your choices

don’t come with violins or lighting,

but with consequences

no script ever warned you about.

You don’t get monologues —

you get breakdowns in public toilets,

you get laughter that sounds like surrender,

you get mornings where breathing

is a negotiation.

You aren’t born into your story.

You bleed into it.

You write it with silence and screaming,

with mistakes you wear like tattoos

no one asked to see

but everyone feels entitled to judge.

You live it —

not because you want to be a hero,

but because you can’t afford to be an extra

in your own fucking life.

They sold us the idea of being someone’s person,

someone’s saviour,

someone’s dream.

But they forgot to mention:

you’ll be edited out the moment you stop fitting

the aesthetic.

So here’s the truth:

You’ll never be the hero in someone else’s story

unless you’re the villain in someone else’s tragedy.

And you’ll never be the hero in your own —

until you stop narrating your life

like it was written by someone

waiting for applause.

This isn’t cinema.

There’s no climax.

There’s no arc.

Just frames.

And flashbacks.

And the regret of having lived for the curious voyeurism of nonchalant camera lenses

in a world allergic to raw footage.

So fuck the hero.

Be the scene.

Be the plot hole.

Be the monologue they had to mute

because it made the ending

too uncomfortable for taste buds suited to happy endings.

Because when you’re gone —

they won’t remember what you fixed.

They’ll only remember

what you dared to break.

And if you want a legacy worth reading,

write the kind of story

that refuses to be buried

with the body.

And if it isn't your hand holding the pen

Burn the fucking hand.