The cerebral dichotomy entered into the equation, but was never taken too seriously. They would banter back and forth until day turned to day again, never getting any closer to a viable, diplomatic resolution. It troubled them, and they would take it home at night, if they went home, to their families, and their pets, and the unseen close ones around them.
It would invade their dreams masquerading as night terrors, driving the weak to tears, and driving the strong to drink. Sex lives would become blasè afterthoughts, appetites would wilt at the sight of food, and any semblence of normality would die right there on the kitchen tile floor in front of their bleary-eyed stares.
One man decided to fight the controlling force. He wasn't brave, just tired, and bored as hell. Heroes rise from the ashes of defeat before they are burned, and he wasn't in the mood to get burned today. But he wasn't a hero either–that title didn't suit him anymore. Maybe it was hanging in the closet way in the back. Not Superman, or even MacGyver, maybe just a pair of jeans and a rumpled t-shirt. In his head he was more, but not much more.