EssayBoard

You were born a blade—
not to rust in someone else’s sheath,
but to gleam under the weight of your own will.

But somewhere,
you traded your fire
for comfort,
your hunger
for a leash.

You dimmed your voice
to please a room that would never remember your name.
You wore masks until your own face forgot itself.

And now,
when the nights stretch too long,
and the silence gets loud,
you feel it:
a whisper in your blood—
“Rise, or rot.”

Because if you don’t grip the reins,
the world will ride you into madness.
If you don’t command your days,
they’ll be auctioned off to distractions.
If you don’t master yourself,
your demons will.

And make no mistake—
no god, no lover, no algorithm
will save you
from the slow collapse
of a life lived
on someone else’s script.

If you’re not your own master,
you’re gonna be a fuck up—
not the wild kind, not the romantic kind,
just the kind who
dies wondering
what could’ve happened
if you had just
answered your own damn call.

So build your spine.
Sharpen your tongue.
Burn the map.
Be the storm.

The throne is empty.
It always has been.
Sit down.
Or stay silent and serve.