He lost more battles during that catastrophic period than he could ever win in a lifetime. Dark clouds marched into the lost paradise, a place it seemed they had made home; silver linings relegated to the deepest corner of a mind that had withered one storm too many.
He could run away, but how far could he? He could stop dead, but could a man sleep well in the knowledge that he had shouldered arms in the face of a calamity? He did neither. He looked each demon in its eye, caught a few by their horns, and was mauled by the rest. Praise the maker who crafted the spirit of his finest creation infinitely stronger than mere bones, mere muscles. Each mauling, each body blow was but physical. He was inspired by not one of the righteous values taught in our schools because not one school had he been to. Not one of the great leaders of the past ignited the flame in his heart because he barely recognized the photos hanging on the walls of offices where he was humiliated like no being should ever be. The motor of his world was driven by the desire to improve the plight of his lot. A goal, as true, as pure, does it exist?
As what appeared to be the final blow landed on his battered body, he collapsed, arms spread and a smile on his lips. Any grimace the overwhelming pain caused was wiped away by the high of all the battles fought hard. Towards the great warriors who walk away with their heads high and conscience clean, the sun has an obligation to rise once again. As the hero slept in the embrace of Mother Earth, he could clearly hear the chirping birds signalling the dawn of another opportunity, another blessing.
