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The world, once rich with intent,
now turns upon itself
a cycle of empty return.
Many walk its path without question,
their days spent, their sight dimmed.
Most drift until they fade.
A rare few pause and perceive.
To cleanse the eyes is no gentle act.
What lies in shadow does not wish to be seen.
Yet those who endure
find their form sharpened by the strain.
Discipline and will.
These are the quiet arms of the awakened.
Not all who bear them are praised.
Most go unseen.
These garments are but remnants of such trials.
Vestiges, worn by those who chose not to wither.
They do not grant strength
they bear witness to it.
Should you don one,
know that the burden is still yours.
But the path…
the path yet remains.
Endure, perceive, reclaim.
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