You see how you’ll be facing
There’s this nihilistic presence
Telling you it’s pointless to continue
Screaming that you hit a wall
That you can’t go further
The challenge is this:
Defeat that onslaught
It’ll try to demand its place in your mind
It may very well find a spot
Doesn’t matter at all
You have to find a way to keep going
If you halt you lose
It’s that simple
You must become impenetrable
Even if it tries to pry the wheel
Try to demand control of the ship
Don’t give in to it
Go down with the ship if you have to
Just never take your hand off the wheel
It won’t always feel like progress. Some days will feel like pure resistance—like every step you take is being countered by something trying to push you back. That’s when you realize the real enemy isn’t the wall in front of you. It’s the voice inside telling you to stop climbing. It’s convincing, too. It speaks with your voice, uses your past, your doubts, your exhaustion. But that voice doesn’t get to decide. You do.
There’s a strength in refusal. Not in the loud kind—the kind that thrashes around—but in the quiet kind. The one that stays seated at the helm even as the winds tear through the sails. That’s how you beat it. You become so centered that no argument it makes can convince you to stop. Even if it makes sense. Even if part of you agrees. You choose action anyway.
And if you go down, you go down swinging. Because what matters isn’t how peaceful your day was, it’s how willingly you continued despite the storm. You become your own symbol. Your own proof that it’s possible to keep moving forward without any evidence that things will get easier. You don’t do it because it’s easy. You do it because it’s right. Because it’s you.
