Still at war. I leverage the sound of the fire fight to fuel my rage. It dissipates. It grows faint…a distant sound where the waterline kisses the amber sky…I grow tired and weak and emptied of emotion. So I close my eyes. I can hear it. Smell it. See it clearly and casually and calm. I’d rather feel this, than what I do at the bottom of a bottle. I’d rather know pain, than be devoid of love, hope, and the recognition that for some of us the tomorrows DO get better. Better days and better sounds and smells and stories to tell. Stories of Saturday sunshine and dance hall antics, deep kisses in the rain, steamy scenes in the sheets that make you squirm and let you know you’re alive. One gun too many. Two deployments too soon. One family left broken. One mind trapped in the fucking zoo. Rather than quitting and giving into the hurt, it’s one more set. One more pull. One more fucking deadlift to save the world. Or me. What’s the difference any more? I’m just one guy. I’m doing the best I can. Sometimes, that’s just not good enough. The alternative though; yeah I’ll take this pain any day. 🐢
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