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And the collective identity bends to the narrative of a single biography The portrait didn’t start as a command. It began as a comfort. A symbol. A way to make the many feel they were seen by the one. But over time, the face on the wall stopped aging. The people beneath it did not. No one knows the exact moment it happened, but something shifted . The voice of the nation began to echo with a single cadence. A familiar rhythm, rehearsed yet intimate. Speeches became sermons. Gestures became choreography. And somewhere in that slow fusion of man and myth, a country forgot how to speak without permission. Does a nation recognize itself when it only sees one reflection? There are cities where the billboards never change. Where the same eyes look out across decades of concrete, untouched by time or doubt. There are classrooms where history begins with a birthday, not a movement. There are news broadcasts that sound like lullabies, repeated until belief replaces memory. This isn’t tyranny, e...

Empathy isn’t infinite. Even truth can become trauma The news never stopped. It poured, constant and glowing, from your phone, your laptop, the television you left on in the background just for company. You watched wars unfold between dinner and dishes. You learned death tolls while brushing your teeth. You listened to economic collapse with a fork in your hand, chewing through someone else’s disaster. And somehow, you felt less with each update. You weren’t ignoring the world. You were carrying it. And it got heavy in places you didn’t know could ache. Your nervous system became the battlefield. Headlines turned into background noise, then into emotional static. A blur of fact and fear, piling into a quiet kind of numbness. This wasn’t apathy. It was exhaustion masquerading as awareness. Can awareness survive when it’s never allowed to rest? There’s a kind of violence in knowing too much. Not the loud kind. The slow one. The drip of detail after detail, tragedy after tragedy, until e...