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I knew a man once. Some claim he was a monster, and I agreed for a very long time. Anymore, I refuse to honor him with the power such labels imply. "Monster." "Beast." "Other." Terrors meant to frighten—meant to weaken, meant to control. There are no monsters. Only the broken and the misunderstood. Still terrifying, sure. But knowable. Conquerable. Unworthy of the power they possess. This man, clad in black and misshapen by the weight of his sins, professed to wield hope as a weapon, to offer it as a crutch, a beacon he saw as false promise. "Nothing dies like hope," he'd say. And was right. The loss of hope stings like no other. But he knew something else—a truth he would not share, a truth muddied by his words and deeds and the grim menace of his presence. And that truth?
Hope is eternal.
It may fade. It may get lost in the pain and suffering of existence. But it's always there. Somewhere. Hidden maybe, in plain sight or far from view.
