Because life is like a whetstone—
it will either grind you down,
or polish you smooth…

When a person feels free, no hardship can truly break them.
When the inner fire of freedom melts every chain, no force can enslave that spirit.
History is filled with people of iron will—so let us look at the life of one of them.

Wladimir Bukowski, who spent half his life in prison, describes this feeling in his book:
that inner warmth that melts every shackle.
The passage below is a loose interpretation of one of its chapters:

Solitary confinement. The world reduced to concrete walls, four steps, and a single bulb—one that doesn’t warm the body, only reminds you that light still exists.
They gave me coarse tobacco without fire. They thought that in the silence it would teach me obedience, that I would beg for a flame.
For days and nights I rolled the cigarette between my fingers until I knew its shape better than my own name.
At last I climbed up to reach the light.
Metal mesh scorched my fingers, the bulb burned; the air was heavy as the breath of night itself.
But when the first smoke filled my lungs, I understood: freedom has the temperature of a light bulb, the taste of blood, and the scent of paper as it smoulders.