Boston, Massachusetts. 2008. With every new season comes a life change. For me it was college. As I rode comfortably in the back of my parents SUV, I held on to my welcome packet and felt the firm, warm feeling of resolution. I had made it to Boston, to the school of my dreams, and I was going to finally be able to figure out who I was to become in this world. High school was great, don’t let me fool you. I had held back tears more than a few times that past summer thinking about leaving it for good, but the timing of this change couldn’t have been better. I was never more ready than I was at that moment.

Our car pulled up to the dorm, and piece by piece we moved things into my small, double room to try to make it feel like home. Posters truly are an interesting thing. What is on your walls could either say everything about who you are or absolutely nothing, or somewhere in between too. Depending on how you consider the publicity of your room, your decorating strategy might cater to the thought of others seeing your walls. But that’s only if you’ve supposed others will be seeing your walls. The other end of the spectrum of course is that only you will truly be the viewer of the walls, and so then the items might be more personal or vague in immediate meaning to someone else. Which is more genuine? Which is truly more honest? I thought these things as I scotch taped posters and flyers to the egg-shell brick walls in my room: A V for Vendetta poster, a flyers to a friend’s violin concerto back home, my Class of 2012 college banner just received at the bookstore, and an artist’s rendition sketch of King Arthur that a good friend had made for my birthday one year. Hmm. Even I wasn’t sure what it added up to, but it somehow brought the cramped room a little light.

My college experience was fairly typical. Made lots of friends, yet struggled with loneliness. Had lots of fun but plenty of pain. Every step of the way grew me ever closer to the final result of the man I would be on the outro. I studied English and History. The legends and language of old. I loved humanity and was exceedingly optimistic about its capacity to do good. Ever since Mr. Frank’s history class, I knew that my heart pulled me to the teaching profession, and so into the ‘School of Ed’ I worked. Some of my friends were always a bit cynical about my hopeful mindset, but the way I saw it, how can you pull off a positive change in the world if you don’t believe in it yourself?

I knew that something out of the ordinary had to happen though. All of this was so…normal. So typical. I didn’t think I was typical, but then again I was a middle-class white American at a liberal arts college in the Eastern United States who grew up with two parents, went to a public school, and enjoyed good music and playing sports. I guess I’d be fooling myself if I said I wasn’t part of the majority demographic, but there was something missing from it all.

I also loved to read and write. A lot. And I loved legends of old more than anyone I knew. Sometimes, my dreams would pull me into character roles I’d been reading about, and before I knew it I was battling Hydras or fighting the high seas. Understand me when I said that these dreams would pull me in. Some mornings, after a dream of fighting hand-to-hand with ‘bad guys’ I’d wake up with sore knuckles. Some days, after carrying my fellow crusader to the safety of the next village, my quads would ache for hours. I never told anyone, it all seemed so bizarre. I just assumed it was psychosomatic somehow, all in my head. But even this wasn’t enough to quench my concern. What was supposed to happen to me? Or was anything supposed to happen? And how was I supposed to know to be ready for it?