Sometimes I think a battlefield is just a stage for rebirth, that when the old is cut down the new can rise, but I still doubt if that rise is worth the cost. The line between destruction and creation is razor thin, and I keep asking myself if the new thing truly belongs to the same world or has become its own.

Standing on that razor feels like a breath held between two fists—tight, heavy, ready to strike or to fall. It’s a place where every thought is a shard, cutting deeper into the self. You feel the weight of the decision, the pull of old code versus new fire, and underneath it all, a quiet fear that you might step off in the wrong direction and let the world swallow you whole. But that same fear also fuels the fire, so I keep my blade close, my eyes steady, and my mind open to whatever comes next.