I spent a lot of my life wondering about my place in this world. We all do, I think. 

Based on the concepts of my childhood, I dreamed of being a hero. Legitimately, there’s an old newspaper clipping of me dressed up as Batman just walking around.  It was not Halloween.

With that idea came this sense of honor and purpose, and this desire to protect people to the bitter end. That thought of being some good guy with a boner for justice really appealed to young me.

It seemed so noble. 

Then, I grew up.

Now, you know, I don’t think heroes and villains matter so much anymore. If I’m perfectly honest, I don’t know that much really does if you think about it long enough. And trust me, I’ve had a lot of time to.  

In fact, if you get to thinking long enough, you can turn everything inside-out and shake it and realize that most of what we think has weight … well, it just isn’t much of anything at all. 

So, I’m not really a strong believer in the dichotomy of such a black and white view of life anymore.

That’s not why I’m going to say what I’m going to say. 

I remember when I was younger and thought I’d have it all by now: marriage, kids, and enough money to take care of all of it. Sure, at my age, it’s all still possible. Given how things are going lately, I wouldn’t call it probable. 

And the light illuminating that dream in my mind is starting to get real low.

In fact, lately when I just let my mind wander into the future it starts making up extreme life-or-death situations where I’m always the one who dies.   

Classic setup, because it’s the one that I play through so much: During some disaster, one person has to stay behind so that the others can make it. I have died in so many ways in all sorts of scenarios in my head because of this one. 

So much so that I had to ask myself, outloud, why I kill me so many times in these little daydreams. 

And that’s when I realized the two-fold reason. 

First, I see myself as expendable in a crucial way. Other people have kids, a wife or someone who depends on them. And when I think about a scenario with parents involved, I think about the emotional cost of each of our deaths. 

I think of us like ticking time bombs, actually. How big would the emotional impact of each death be, in the most objective way? 

And my answer to that is why I’m always the guy on the other side of the door dying of poison gas or blown apart or eaten by wolves or who takes the bullet or … so many other things. 

The second reason, and perhaps the more decisive, is a much less complex thing. 

After living across multiple states, talking to thousands of people and observing life around me for more than three decades, I can say with some certainty that everyone needs some kind of sanctuary. 

Everyone needs a home that’s not a home.

That’s how, I believe, we can keep going when life has us weighed down with too much nonsense and tragedy. 

I think we all need that someone or something that we can find a sense of rest in.

And my friend, I’m dead tired.