Men have always died. In dying they take nothing,

Men have always died. In dying they take nothing, so it was a man gives, what he leaves behind that defines him, each man building upon his predecessors legacy. Long forgotten ancestors left us an identity, a name. In taking a name Forefathers pass on lands and property. The men of this era are no different, in being given wealth and lands they ought to aspire and build, leave behind a world, a better one.

Do I believe in superheroes? No, the older I have gotten, the more I have fallen in love with the idea that not the extraordinary or the supernatural has merely been imbued with human characteristics, rather the idea that within humanity lies the greatness. My heroes have always been real people.

Perhaps it is fitting that the best of our kind are so plagued with sadness, having seen so much of it themselves, the desire to inflict the same in those around them never truly takes root.

Such is the painful lesson is war, that in life those that lay lead dead on the battlefield could not see the bond in one another and killed each other. Sharing the same womb of the earth in extinction as brothers share the same womb from they took existence. Made to be brothers in death simply because they could not see the brotherhood they shared in life.

To be progressive is to have the courage to try to see through the fog of doubt that blocks the path forward, make out what is yet to come, in a journey where others focus their gaze on what is and what was.