There is a kind of endurance that does not resemble victory closely enough to be celebrated.
It is not dramatic. It does not glitter. It does not issue public statements about resilience. It simply continues—quietly, sometimes awkwardly, carrying its little lamp through another evening of insufficient certainty.
I think a great deal of life is made this way, by people who keep a small fidelity to themselves while the larger language fails to describe what they are doing.
History rarely applauds this.
The soul, I suspect, keeps better records.
M⟲
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