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The fourth Tread from “She Had To Go” (Poem):
“The Triumph of the Few”

Only a few men escaped her seductive barbarity.” The words hang heavy, a quiet monument to a victory so rare it borders on myth. Escape from her—lust draped in silk, her pulchritude a deadly snare—wasn’t a gift handed to the masses. It was a triumph of the vigilant, a prize seized by the few who dared to see beyond the shimmer. They didn’t stumble out by chance; they walked away, eyes open, choosing the harder path over the sweet descent. My soul, refined like iron, bears the scars of that escape—a testament to battles fought and won, a map of soul refinement etched in every step.

This isn’t just about lust. It’s about all desires that cloak themselves in promise—wealth, power, approval—each a siren with claws beneath the surface. The few who triumph don’t do so because they’re immune; they succeed because they see. Her seductive barbarity was a beast, not a muse, and recognizing that was the first act of defiance. Overcoming temptation isn’t a passive drift toward safety—it’s a deliberate break, a refusal to kneel. I was one of those few—not by birthright or strength, but by the stubborn will to peel back the mask and face what lay beneath.

The existentialists, like Jean-Paul Sartre, might call this authenticity—living true to oneself, unshackled by illusions. Sartre spoke of freedom as a burden, a call to define our own essence in a world that tempts us to conform. Her allure was conformity’s sweetest voice: surrender, indulge, let the chaos swallow you whole. But the few who escaped chose the burden instead. My trials shaped me in their crucible, the stains of desire marked me in their blood, and the slaughter of lust freed me in its silence. Each step built this philosophy of triumph—not a loud victory, but a quiet one, forged in the refusal to be seduced.

Soul refinement isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral of scars. The iron of my being didn’t emerge flawless—it’s dented, scratched, tempered by every blow I took and gave. Escaping her wasn’t the end of temptation; it was the beginning of seeing it for what it is. The few who walk away carry that sight like a lantern—dim, flickering, but enough to guide them past the next snare. Overcoming temptation doesn’t make you invincible; it makes you awake. I bear the scars of that wakefulness: the heat of trials, the weight of stains, the sting of slaughter. They’re not burdens—they’re proof.

The philosophy of triumph lies in this rarity. Most don’t escape—not because they can’t, but because they won’t. Her barbarity is seductive because it’s easy; the path of the few is hard because it’s true. Sartre’s authenticity demands we reject the script handed to us, and I did. I saw the beast behind the allure—not just lust, but every desire that promises peace and delivers chains. My soul, refined through fire and blood, stands as evidence: the trials shaped me, the stains marked me, the slaughter freed me. The few who triumph don’t boast—they endure, their victory a silent rebellion against the chaos.

So I ask: Are you among the few who’ve defied the seductive chaos? What temptations have you faced, their promises glinting like gold, that you’ve walked away from? Soul refinement isn’t for the many—it’s for the vigilant, the scarred, the ones who choose the harder path. The philosophy of triumph isn’t a crown; it’s a quiet step beyond the wreckage. My escape is mine, but the question is yours: Have you seen the beast and turned away?

The fourth Tread from “She Had To Go” (Poem):
“The Taste of Memory”

“Her blood touches my lips, reminiscing on the time when lust had its grip on me.” The slaughter was done, the blade of will had struck, and yet victory didn’t wipe the slate clean. Even in triumph, the residue lingers—a faint smear of her blood, lust’s essence, brushing my lips with a bitter taste that drags me back to darker days. It’s not a fresh wound, but a trace, a whisper of what was. This isn’t the sting of defeat; it’s the aftertaste of liberation, a reminder etched in sensation. Memory, I’ve learned, is a double-edged sword—it warns and wounds, heals and haunts, all at once.

That taste pulls me into the past with a force I can’t resist. I recall the grip—tight as a vice—when lust ruled my choices, its fingers coiled around my will. It whispered lies of fulfillment, soft and seductive, promising a sweetness that turned to ash in my mouth. Those were the days when past struggles defined me, when every step was shadowed by a hunger I couldn’t name. The blood on my lips now isn’t new—it’s the echo of those battles, a flavor that lingers long after the war is won. Soul refinement doesn’t erase the scars; it sanctifies them, turning stains into signposts of how far I’ve climbed.

The philosophy of memory offers a lens for this strange dance with the past. Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish thinker, wrote of repetition—not as mere recollection, but as the act of revisiting what was to understand it anew. He saw life as a spiral, where we circle back not to relive but to redeem. This taste on my lips is my repetition. It’s not defeat—it’s a sacrament, a bitter communion with the self I overcame. Each time her blood brushes me, I’m pulled back to the vice, the lies, the chains—but only to see them broken. Memory wounds me with its clarity, yet heals me with its distance. Past struggles don’t vanish; they linger as teachers, their lessons sharp and enduring.

There’s a quiet power in this residue. It’s not the thrill of lust’s old grip, but the weight of knowing I slipped free. The blood isn’t a trophy—it’s a mirror, reflecting a man who once knelt to desire and now stands over its corpse. Soul refinement is a slow burn, a process that doesn’t scrub the palate clean but leaves a taste you learn to carry. I don’t spit it out or swallow it whole—I let it sit, a bitter note that hums with meaning. Kierkegaard’s repetition isn’t about erasing the past; it’s about facing it until it bends to your truth. This taste is mine—a mark of liberation, not captivity.

But memory isn’t just my burden—it’s ours. We all carry tastes like this, don’t we? Fragments of past struggles that brush against us in quiet moments—a regret, a craving, a choice we barely survived. The philosophy of memory suggests these aren’t accidents; they’re threads in the tapestry of who we become. For me, it’s lust’s blood, a bitter sip that warns me of its grip and heals me with its absence. For you, it might be different—a different flavor, a different fight. Soul refinement doesn’t promise a spotless soul; it offers one that’s weathered, marked, and stronger for it.

So I ask: What memories do you carry that both haunt and heal? What taste lingers on your lips, pulling you back to your own darker days? The philosophy of memory doesn’t demand you forget—it asks you to taste again, to find the liberation in the bitterness. My bloodstained lips are proof of a war won. What’s yours?