Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
You’re in the trenches. You don’t know how you got there, you don’t know when they were built, and you don’t know what lies for you above them.
But there you are, kid, right in the trenches. You’re fighting and you’re fighting hard. It’s not just about shooting the other guy, killing some faceless enemy across the mud and barbed wire. It’s about staying alive in this filthy mire of shit and decay. It’s about being able to breathe the air that still blows gently in, fetid with death. It’s about being able to enjoy the peace and quiet for the thirty seconds that your hearing comes back and that next shell is waiting to whistle. It’s about being able to smile with your brothers as you taunt the enemy just by being alive.
It’s also about killing the enemy.
The enemy? Nameless, faceless , formless. It’s not quite boredom, it’s not quite yearning. It’s desperate and demanding, but phantasmagorical, intangible. It’s realizing that you had something you truly wanted, but you’ll never get it back. It’s feeling a breeze across the nape of your neck in a heat wave—long enough to make you notice, cold enough to make you want more, and wicked enough to leave you there.
The enemy is this void in your heart, in your chest, hidden behind a damask shroud, luring you in. Sucking and pulling at your very will power to give in.
But there you are kid, still fighting. It only ends one way: with you in a trench.
One way or another, kid.
The pine box will stain and warp, bathed in your mother’s tears as they lower you in. The damask shroud will be around you this time, spreading from the inside out.
It will get you. You fought the good fight, but you just can’t win.
So they say.