Commit. The word hovers like a commandment. The skull screams not in defeat—but in devotion. A howl born from hunger. From doing it all alone. From grinding bone into altar.
Below it, the line demands: “Work endlessly toward YOUR dreams.”
Not a mantra. A scar. A dare.
The Cost of the Dream is not aspirational—it’s confessional. It speaks for the ones who never stopped, even when it broke them. It honors the ache behind the empire. The fire behind the face. The discipline behind the myth.
The red rays aren’t praise. They’re pain made radiant.
This piece isn’t about motivation. It’s about memory.
