These days my favourite authors are Stephen King and J.K. Rowling, who were once very, very poor and whose love for life and writing never fades even after they have become famous and rich. But if you ask me who my favourite author was some twenty years ago, I would say, it was Echo.
I searched and searched for a photo online that would best represent what I loved about her, but there was none. Indeed, even with words, how do you describe someone you once loved so much that you believed she had overwhelmingly shaped your life? Someone who, you realised years later, was just another ordinary person who enjoyed reading, writing and travelling, just like you and me. Someone who had tried so hard to hide behind her brave smile all her broken dreams and cries for help, but failed. Someone whose job was not to inspire the crowds, as she had been assumed and accused to have done, but to find enough courage to live.
Everyone has a hero, but sooner or later we would be over them, simply because we have grown up. Heroes exist only in fantasy and mythical memory. Those in real life who have managed to overcome all of their fair share of hardships — or have died trying — are “admired or idealized for [their] courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities” (as Google tells us), but they, ultimately, are just ordinary people like us. Once we have realised this, we can consider ourselves to be truly mature. …
… And then, only then, can we start seeing our heroes as only symbols. Then we can start dreaming again, for we have renewed our vision about this world. Once shadowed by our heroes, we can now shine for our own sake.
Once I stood and listened to an echo. Now I have my own voice.
Voices under the Sun 陽光下的聲音 