That’s the beauty of it all. Light succumbs to dark eventually, as the day does to night. Life festers, decomposes, devours itself, and begins anew. I’m just another part of that process. I’m just another part of the Divine Cycle that haunts us all, trailing behind us, eating our footsteps faster and faster until there is nothing left— no marks, no trace, no shadow.

You think yourself a hero. You call your creed saintly, and holy, and high.

You fly the same paper flag that those self-proclaimed martyrs fought under, century by century. It may be painted in bold colors, but is ultimately prone to tear.

I’ve seen your type blossom and rise and yield to death, like all the rest. Another flower cut. Another farm boy bleeding out on the battlefield.

You’re not special. You’re just like all the rest.

Run home, little ram. I will not hesitate to cut you down as a bulrush before God.

And there is the heart of it: every bulrush falls eventually. Every man returns to dust. The sun will always fall, and the night will always rise.

Isn’t it beautiful?