Dragon and Star

The image of the dragon in myths and fairy tales has always fascinated me because of its depth and universality. In the Western mythological tradition, the dragon most often appears as an embodiment of evil, chaos, and destructive power — the ultimate destination of the hero’s journey. It is not merely an enemy, but a concentration of fear, shadow, and trial. To defeat the dragon is not simply to win a battle, but to undergo transformation. The hero returns changed, more whole than before. This logic is central to the archetypal structure of myth: the dragon is the guardian of the threshold, the force that must be faced directly. The hero cannot avoid it or negotiate around it. In this sense, the dragon is not absolute evil, but a necessary element of growth — the embodiment of what must be confronted in order to move forward. I find this image surprisingly applicable to everyday life. For a long time, for example, I used a dragon emoji on social media as a sign of presence — a mark that I had seen a post or had been somewhere. It was more than a symbol of acknowledgment; it became a form of self-representation. I liked imagining myself as a dragon — something powerful, autonomous, and enduring. A being that does not dissolve into its surroundings, but leaves a trace. At the same time, in Eastern mythological traditions, the dragon carries almost opposite meanings. In China, Korea, and Japan, the dragon is associated not with destruction, but with life force, rain, fertility, prosperity, and cosmic order. The Eastern dragon is not an adversary to be slain, but a wise and benevolent power — one that exists in harmony with the world. It is not conquered, but understood. Importantly, this difference does not mean that one image is “right” and the other is “wrong.” Rather, they represent two aspects of the same archetype. The Western dragon is the inner force that must be overcome. The Eastern dragon is the force with which one must learn to align. This is where the idea of choice emerges for me. Being born in Eurasia — between East and West — I feel this tension particularly strongly. It is not a conflict in the ordinary sense, but a constant inner dialogue: to be kind or cruel, gentle or ruthless, to flow with the current or to oppose it, to be weak or to be strong. Ultimately, all of these are abstractions, but they create the very space in which human freedom exists. In this context, the dragon ceases to be an external figure of myth and becomes an image of inner power. It can destroy — and it can protect. It can be shadow — and it can be a source of authority and maturity. The question is not whether the dragon exists, but what role we allow it to play within us. Perhaps happiness lies precisely in this choice: not to kill the dragon, and not to worship it blindly, but to carry it consciously within oneself.