Sometimes I wonder what Odysseus felt,
Returning to Ithica
20 years later.
Seeing his wife haggled by suitors,
His own home disrespected,
His own name forgotten.

Or Perseus, as he hunted Medusa,
Knowing that one wayward glance
Would turn his skin to stone,
And be the end of his story.

Or Achilles, who fought at Troy
Knowing that he could flee
And never be caught,
Yet fighting,
Knowing he would be slain.

Or Heracles and his 12 labours,
Facing the hydra,
The three-headed Cerberus,
The stench of the Augean stables,
Even carrying heaven on his shoulders.

These battles, I want to ask,
Were they worth it?
Being remembered by history,
Exalted as mankind’s heroes,
That is.

And for the stories with quiet, unremarkable battles,
Ones fought more domestically, within oneself,
Like the billions of caterpillars transforming
In hidden corners of the forest,
We forget.

History is generous to brazen courage.