I was never a hero

I lie
between those rough sheets
of an old forgotten book
and I eat those letters
written centuries before from now
to be read in air forever
somehow.
And I ask the protagonist
of my book,
'Don't you feel alone
now that you are a myth?'
'Aye, it is not true.
For I was never a myth.
Rather I was never a hero too.
To my own eyes yes, 
but I was a crew.
My story would have not existed
had there not been others too.'
His words disappoint me.
I feel betrayed.
I try to reconcile his faith
in every event 
his heroic fate.
But he seems
to be transcended
out of the book 
that is our home.
I tried reminding me
that he has become a Noun.
'Fie, Nouns are man-made.
So are these mythical sounds.
where you n me are creations.
to entertain and pound.'
I feel suffocated
yet somehow fascinated,
I ask for the origin
or maybe some fission
to embark some anchor
upon his entity
to register his
immensity.
But he has grown stubborn.
He seems abandoned.
He denies to accept his own story.
He shuns this book and its glory.
'Why child, why?
Yo are nothing without
your story?
Why it is meant to become
your history.
You loose your existence
moment you leave your roots.
You cease to exist 
when your strings are
so loose.'
'I give balls to those strings.
I am not a puppet.
and I need no strings.
And I need no roots too.
I wanna be free.
I wanna explore.
I am tired of being a hero.
I am sick of being - the ideal shore.'
And he rises suddenly
so indifferent to my lonely shore
he hugs me one last time
Says, ' Mother,
this will always be my home.'
And he leaves
our book, our home.
And here I wait for him,
The hero of our story
my ideal shore.

Mystical Wanderer