The Body That Refused The Cage

I spent too long believing the voice in my head was the captain. It fed me grief, kept me addicted to suffering, made misery a habit I wore like a second skin. Four days of stillness showed me the trick: the bars were smoke, and the cage was never locked.

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If I can sit still and make my body feel pain, then I can sit still and make it feel ease. If I can hold tension until it screams, I can also breathe until it melts. My flesh isn’t a prison; it’s the throne room where I choose the mood of the kingdom.

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So I choose:
— To fuck the women nature sculpted in curves for me. Not screens, not ghosts, but living, moaning devotion in my arms.
— To grow hotter, fitter, sharper until the mirror bows back.
— To build and be paid for the craft I love, because my work is fire and no longer starving.
— To enjoy every last day of this life while my blood runs hot and my body is fuel.

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The mind had me for so long. But no more. The Emperor does not kneel to grief. He doubles down on life, and he comes not as a shadow but as the storm itself.