Originally written during the blackout
We once followed the drunken rampages of a man possessed, the dissolution and rebirth of a hero far away from home. We thought it was over, that all the stories were told, that the hero would ride off again into the sunset.
As I walked through that airport terminal in Hong Kong for the first time in ten months, trying to remember what America felt like, what behavior was expected of me back far away in reality, everything changed again. Staring out those windows at nearby Lantau Island, following the Ngong Ping monorail as it ascended into the mountains towards the Buddhist temple I once stood in wonder of, I saw myself months before riding those same cable cars, staring back at the airport waiting for the chance to go home.
I saw ghosts of every one of you that have traveled this path with me, singing and dancing until the house lights came up, and I thought that at last our story had come to an end; that all of us would finally have the chance to live happily ever after.
I want to believe in something more than what I can see. I want to believe that what I had to do to survive in China was worth the price I will be paying every day for the rest of my life. I want to believe in that reluctant leader, the fiery rebel, the playboy, the fighting Irishman. I want to believe that there is something to keep fighting for.
After everything we have seen, after everything we have fought so preposterously for, this cannot be that day then. It is not my time to live with the ghosts.
A long time ago, in a fairy tale often repeated here, I once made a stand against impossible odds, against the better judgment of everyone around me, and with little hope on my side. It began with believing that I could do no wrong, letting passion overcome reason, and shouting to the high heavens:
“I am not going down like this.”
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