He had started to get the hook of it.

Life was going. Little did he know from where it came. Nor did he know where it was headed.

All he know is, he is alive. Living.

There were times when his life was colourful. And times when his life was black and white. But his life had become colourless for first time. Now.

.
.

All he had done, was enjoy with his friends. When the world around taught him to enjoy, he enjoyed.

But forgot to look for meaning in it.

And led a life full of enjoyment without meaning. Not a life filled with enjoyement and meaning.

He was not alone. There were his friends just like him. Same world. Same flow. Same freaking lives. Same heroic stories.

But wait... the meaning of heroic had got twisted there. Because they were heroic to themselves. In their imagination, somehow whatever they were, had become the definition of heroism. But the true essence of life was never ever going to tell that his friends were heroic at all.

Because in reality, they were not heroic.

As they had not started to think yet.

They were not like him. As only he, among them, had scratched the meaningless flow of life. He had started to think. He had started to make the course of his life's flow.

He was the hero. 

Though he didnt care now.

He had to do something. He had to find the purpose of his life. And no one can deny there is a purpose for every life. If they did, then they would become animals.

.
.
.

Not humans.