The End of War
What is it like to be in combat? Learning to live in constant fear with never-ending heart pounding. Anxiety creeps in every night, nightmare after nightmare, waking up after the sounds of bombs. Boom! Boom! You dropped to one knee and start to feel uneasy every time you see the enemy. How do you cope with it all this time?
It’s been a while since you told me that you’ve been filling the void with the idea of coming home. It feels like the only sanctuary of mind you could hold on to. Writing the bad dreams in your worn journal is to shut down the negative thoughts. The uncountable minutes you spent on a fake laugh with pals would keep the distraction going. Until one day everything turns dark — they’re gone, gone, gone. Your base is now conquered, your friends just waved out the white flag, and your ammo won’t last long, yet you need to look for a nest to stay breathing at least until the sun sets.
Eventually, you cry, cry, and cry. Head spinning out, eyes swollen, you lost your voice and are left alone with one question to answer. Darling, is it worth it to fight?
You’ve been trying to draw the sword, go to the battlefield, and slash the enemies. But why aren’t they destroyed? Their comrades are doubled and coming back to you. Run, run, run, should we?
You got shot every time you try to counterattack. The wounds are bleeding, screaming for help. As you keep firing the big guns, one by one, your allies are pulling back. Even if you force yourself to try, who will be the winner? Is it worth the consequences? It’s almost like you’re the loser anyway, the one who lost so much, yet the enemies will never take a chance to look and care about the pain they caused. They will keep drawing the arrows, aim for the hearts, and tear your soul.
Darling, then isn’t it the cue? There is that door on the other side with a ‘forgive’ sign hanging on top of it. Forgive, not for them, but for you — for us. I’m sorry for the sufferings you’ve been enduring; the pain you’ve allowed to enter; the unfairness you’ve been tolerating; the smile you’ve failed to keep; the days you’ve let yourself cry over things that don’t worth the tears. I’m sorry, it will be the end of our dark days.
Being in combat on yourself is lonely, baby. Hurling through the night, in between those headlights. Let the light in, love.
