Strength doesn’t feel glamorous. I wish it looked like a powerful Amazon warrior, like the one from Diablo II—running through the Blood Moor, focused on her mission. She’s unbothered. Armies of monsters come at her, and she literally doesn’t give a flying f***.
↑ this is what I mean.
I wish strength felt more like that: like being unbothered, like a massive monument, like a samurai’s unbreakable focus. I wish strength didn’t make me a crying mess. I wish it didn’t feel like I have to carry on —DESPITE.
It would be cool if the monsters were real, if we could just slay them and be done. If being strong meant doing something once and being free. I wish strength meant I could sacrifice my hand, punch a wall and that would seal the deal. I wish strength wasn’t so... pedestrian, so... painfully ordinary.
Strength is keeping going. It’s going on with your life, again and again, choosing yourself, choosing joy, choosing excitement.
Strength is in choosing the next step. A tiny step, a next-moment step, a next-second step. Over and over. And over. And over... DESPITE.
And I’m writing this, holding Obsidian to my chest. But something is different. Instead of the usual fierce presence, what I experience feels like a motherly hug—warm, gentle, and surprisingly understanding.
I never would’ve thought of Obsidian as “soft,” and compassionate about my feelings. But here we are. No big truth-bomb, no dramatic revelations. Just a sense that I got it right.
You’re right, it seems to say, without needing to explain. Obsidian has nothing more to add, just this steady, almost physical support.
It takes strength to keep choosing love.
