Anyways, hallo, just posting a very rushed story written on the theme 'war'. Tell me what you all think!
I am everywhere, that's an important fact to note. I'm unavoidable, wherever there are shadows there is me. Some might say I live on death. However to be honest we're old friends, we walk hand in hand, shadows in the night. That means life is the light. Life and death, light and dark, where there is one there is the other. They can't exist without each other, it's just the way things work. But what am I really? I'm not the soldiers that now lie in lonely piles of mangled limbs alone in the cold everlasting winter of no mans land. I'm not the weapons that are thrown aside in fractured moments of peace and clutched tightly by trembling hands under rapid gunfire. I'm not the families back home, the brothers, the sisters, the mothers or the fathers. In the end I'm a concept, a human creation. More than anything I'm an excuse.
Perhaps that's why I find it so ironic to watch so many young lives go to waste in my name. They go to war, but it's my old friend death who welcomes them with open arms. I stand and watch, a silent bystander at an eternal funeral, not wanted, not welcomed. I can only watch while the ones who created me die. The horizon I see is overwhelmed with streaks of red and black, the corse smell of smoke and the tiny flecks of debris flying in the blood sodden wind like salt and pepper afloat in an ocean of grief. This is what they say is me. But I'm not the one dropping the bombs.
I watch as the shadow and the light dance around the dead bodies that lie before me in the dirt. To some such a death is honorable, those aren't the ones who know what fear is. There's the occasional stab of regret as I walk, but it isn't guilt I feel. It's too late for guilt, I already exist. I walk a path that not many others would and believe me when I say it's not by choice. The mud between the corpses is mixed with sticky pools of crimson and scraps of uniform sink slowly downwards into the pond of putrid carcass. It's harder to distinguish who is allied with who now, as the ground begins to swallow the beaten bodies. And somehow, it doesn't matter. Because death has already come and gone.
I could catch up with him if I wanted to, I could rush past the fields, gliding on the almost non-existent wind. Perhaps then I wouldn't feel as empty. I'll never end though, why should I rush. I'll always be around, I'll never be able to stop living with myself. This is what I am. This is what they want me to be. So I continue, the permanent sound of silence following me across the planes of Hell that these soldiers have walked. I would have liked to have been able to talk to them before they left, I might have been able to save a life. But on the vast scale of things humans don't really care about one life, as long as it isn't connected to their own.
The ones I pity most are the ones that still have time, the ones that can feel the minutes, feel the seconds, feel the moments, the ones for who know they'll die alone. These are the ones who have time to realize it's not me they've been facing all along, it's themselves. This is what hurts the most. It hurts harder than the bullet wounds, believe me. Nothing pains a human more than realizing everything they stand for is nothing. Nothing hurts more than realizing your little more than a pawn on a chessboard. I know because I watch these last few struggle for air, faces contorted, arms thrashing, eyes desperately searching for the shadow behind the board to deliver mercy. They've forgotten pawns are the easiest pieces to replace.
There are those that don't believe in me.It's a survival instinct. Avoid anything that can't be explained, anything that can't be predicted. Yet there are none as predictable as I. They only have to look inside themselves and I'll be there. I'm everywhere. I'm the silent worries that haunt the back of their minds like ghost slipping silently through the cobwebs of doubt and silently weaving paths of silver as I walk. I'm the anger they feel, the raging torrents of wild wind that sweep through their emotions as they struggle to keep control. I'm the sea stung paths that are left behind when they weep. I'm the shadows and death is the night. Unavoidable, walking hand in hand through cities of bone.
They want to stay in the light though...the thin, wavering, dust flecked, golden rays of life. That's what they want more than anything. They don't understand that life is the one who creates the towering cities of skulls that death and I wander through. Life is what creates the doubts that weigh them down like pebbles, growing heavier every day. They don't understand that life is the one behind the chess board. There cannot be death without life. It's a card game, life deals the deck and death is the one who plays the final card. I stand and observe once again, because I don't belong. I'm an outcast in this sense. People like to deny my existence, but it's too late to ignore me. I am what they see reflected in the glassy surfaces of their meaningless mirrors. I've become more than just an idea, I am what they call human.
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