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The metaphors of light and dark are wrong. So blissfully, but deceptively wrong. Light must always win. Its advance can only ever be so. Can only, can always be met with dark’s retreat. Night’s dissolution. It is where there was none. Presence into absence. The conquering flood of what is into the space of what wasn’t.

Light will always – must always – triumph. For good, it’s never been so simple.

Light does not claw every inch as good must do. Light does not turn on itself. It cannot be bought, killed or jailed. Light never tires, never stumbles, and never – through fear or ignorance – fails to become. It simply is. And it simply conquers.

Good must feel these pains. Must fight for every heart it wins, and cry for each lost. Finds itself pushing with muscles that grow tired. That grow ever older.

But good has a fire that light can never know. That heat that exists for but a perfect moment at the point of impact. Good knows what it is to win. To triumph, and to take with these imperfect sinews what was not offered from the hands of those who would not free it.

The light cannot help itself. It cannot know uncertainty. While good cannot but deeply embrace every beautiful, improbable moment of its becoming.