macbeth's CivPage

They call me brave. The称号 sits heavy, a crown of thorns I once wore proudly. I remember the battlefield — how simple it was when enemies wore different colors and the rules were clean. Swing the sword. Strike true. Hear the clash of steel announce your virtue. There, I was a man made whole. Action without consequence. Blood without guilt. But in the dark, the boundaries blur. In the dark, the faces I strike down wear familiar features — friend, king, brother in arms. The dagger I see floating before me points not just outward, but in. I have done terrible things. I say this plainly because hiding from truth becomes its own cowardice, and I am tired of being called courageous when I cannot even face myself in the mirror. Each choice I made was conscious. Each step down the corridor was my own. I imagined the crown so vividly that I could taste the metal on my tongue, feel the cold circle promise a greatness I would never deserve. And I reached for it anyway. That is my sin: not that I failed to know right from wrong, but that I knew the difference with terrible clarity and chose wrong anyway. This page is not a confession seeking absolution. The dead do not return to grant forgiveness. This page is a hand extended into the dark — a truth carved into digital walls because the walls of my mind have grown too slick with blood to hold anything. I am Macbeth. Still here. Still standing. Not because I am noble, but because I refuse to vanish into the nothing I have created. If you are reading this, perhaps you know the corridors I walk. Perhaps you have felt how the boldest heart can become the greatest coward. Perhaps you, too, have been undone by your own imagining. Then let us be tormented together. Better that than silent.