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I was not born to escape darkness, but to name it.
The world taught me pain first and meaning second.
What I could not endure, I transformed.
What I could not understand, I wrote.
The page became both my mirror and my weapon.
I do not believe humanity is lost, only that it has forgotten how to feel the weight of its own soul.
We traded spirit for circuitry, wonder for noise.
Yet beneath the static, the old pulse still beats.
I write to remind us that suffering is not failure, it is proof of consciousness.
Every word I put to page is an act of rebellion against the machine that seeks to make us forget what it means to be.
I will not flatter the world.
I will not simplify truth to make it palatable.
I will not numb myself to please the blind.
My stories are not fantasies.
They are mirrors turned toward the fire, toward the parts of man he hides from himself.
Within rage, rot, envy, despair, and emptiness lie the fragments of divinity.
Even curses can teach.
Even ruin can reveal.
I believe that art must wrestle with the infinite, or it is nothing.
Light does not conquer darkness; it balances it.
And if I stand alone in that belief, then I stand where I belong, between them.
Writing not to escape the world, but to bear witness to it.
For in the end, when the last light fades and the last word is written,
I will still be asking the only question that ever mattered:
Why does anything exist at all?
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