No Winners In War

I sit here in some kind of unnamed emotional or just some kind of space. Trying to make sense of something that has no sense. No reason, no rhyme, just utter stupidity. I’m free but it doesn’t feel like it. Something simmering for a very long time finally boiled over, hot liquid running down the side of the boiling pot. The liquid finally meets the hot stove surface and sizzles. More steam arises enticing more liquid to run down the other side of the boiling pot. it won’t end until it ends. The liquid can not go back in the pot. It is gone forever. Only a memory of it remains. Only a memory.

Places of pain dot the landscape of our lives. Like abandoned landmarks, only to be remembered when a similar pain finds and revives it. A deserted dry place. Not fun to visit, quickly passed by. Wandering tourists don’t even stop for gas. Speeding past it on approach; water doesn’t live here.

Take the pain and stuff it. Hide it, move it far away from sight. Don’t talk about it, don’t think about it, and you can make it. You can go on because in you is the stuff survivors and winners are made of. It’s flight or fight, and you fought and won, but it doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like it was a job, a duty, a task that fell in the order of things. It was a last minute addition. A pinch hitter brought in to win the game. The first swing is a foul ball. Speeding down the 3rd base line. The pain strikes again this time missing the target leaving itself open for the ultimate ending. Not letting it beat me, not wanting to show weakness or vulnerability. Stay strong, stay the course, end this dreadful game of pretend. Show your real feelings. Say what’s really on your mind. It’s better that way. Now you know where I stand and what I’m capable of.

I won’t back down now, you’ve pulled me from spectator to participant, and you are driving me in the ground. Winning a battle that should have never been. Where in this ungodly world do you exist? What place of barren emptiness do you dwell? Last swing and it’s a good hit. Not only is it a hit, it’s a homerun! The pain is here, the void, the emptiness is visible. Light shines on it showing nothing growing in the dryness. Hope for a seed, something to bring it back to life. Nothing you possess can make it bountiful. There are limits to what you can do, what you know how to do. Those limits sarcastically smile, knowing that the battle is only stopped because the opponent is out of time. Out of innings, out of breath. Defeat is never beautiful. Victory isn’t always sweet. In war, there will be casualties. There will be pain. What now?