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He no longer knew why he continued to impose those rhythms...

...on himself but he was the lighthouse that indicated the route,

the rock on which the castaway would lean to to save his life.

He could have gone to war alone even against an entire regiment without a second guess

he was slave to his call and what had distinguished him from that sea of whining and self-pity that he hated from the bottom.

His armor shined in and out of the battlefiled
he could no longer see himself without it.

Even at home.

In fact, he also showered in it
until he started to feel dry inside
and his back could no longer sustain the weight
of that iron skin he was trapped inside.

But he didn't know any better.

The affirmation of principles through consistent actions was what made him who he was... reliable, solid, accountable...

So he believed
until one day
that armor began to tighten on him to the point of suffocation.

He could no longer move
no longer feeling the wind on his skin
the strength that once allowed him to wear it like a silk tie
now barely allowed him to drag himself
continuing to see the shadow of that warrior who hated crybabies
only because he hadn't been able to accept
the weakness of the ones he loved most.

One day, in one of those moments where he could hardly breath,
something incredible happened,

although he was still inside that mass of iron, he saw himself, from the outside, lying on the battlefield that made him an hero back in the days
and in the same exact moment

every belief he doveted his life for collapsed
and in that defeat
a love beyond his will, invaded him,
free to be vulnerable
free to not know
lying down alongside the ones that once
he could not accept as they were
because it was easier to be angry than sad
but now it was different
he could feel his heart beating again while
his armour of beliefs and medals of honors melted as snow under the sun.

What title would you give to this story?