In the shadow of who he is supposed to be, a lion often forgets who he is. 

When looked upon as a king, he has no choice but to adapt and respond to fill his role. And yet, behind the façade, behind the connotation he has been forced to become, he cowers.

He cowers, not in fear of others, for they have built him up, a looming monument to his own greatness. No, he fears himself, for he alone knows that it is an illusion; the structure will soon fall, leaving behind the only thing that he knows is real.

Mortality.

And when he falls, when he is exposed as skin and bones, no more and no less than the rest of us, the world around him will seem to crumble as well. He will be face to face with the sphinx, who will ask him the one question he is incapable of answering.

Who are you?

By decree of the world around him, he was made a king. And in the end, only he paid the price for the erratum of the public eye.

In the shadow of who he is supposed to be, a lion often forgets who he is.