I sit upon my own throne in King Midas’s court, but unlike the great King, when I raise my hand upon the golden halls, they crumble into dust, and then vanish into nothingness. This feeling has lead me to believe that I am the Bane of King Midas, the polar opposite. Instead of being the white dove of hope, I am The black Raven of sorrow.
Life has always been a bleak outlook for me ever since I was a child. I knew I was destined to not achieve greatness, or to succeed in any way that a man may indeed be labelled as successful. As a child I knew hope was a vanity, and that my life would be full of hardship and discontent, I was not wrong.
Success has eluded me, my enemies are howling at my gates, anticipating my annihilation, ready for war. For decades I have stood tall, with two middle fingers raised in the air, defiant, determined, and ready for battle. Yet the last three years have been a burden upon my soul, and my fighting spirit. I am no longer the undefeated, invincible warrior, I am the broken and defeated gladiator, awaiting the thumbs down from Caesar, waiting to be put out of his misery.
The Legion is coming, and I stand alone against them, armed with broken armour and a broken sword, with no hope, no defiance, just a silent acceptance of my fate. Like all men, I dream of success, of being able to finance the dreams within me, and each morning, I awake to the reality that dreams are merely my imaginative form of escapism, and yet also my torment.
I am the Bane of King Midas, the one who turns gold to dust, the pauper who wished to be King, but knew not where to rest the crown. I look at those around me, and watch them succeed and blame me for their ills. I look upon the downtrodden path ahead of me, adorned not with gold, but with dust, pitfalls and thorns. Pain, suffering and broken dreams lie before me, failure is my only option, success is not. I am the villain that never wins, the Hero that never was, I am the Bane of King Midas…
Until next time,