“Don’t worry private, it gets easier over time.”
“No Sargent, you’re dead wrong”
It’s not that it gets easier, rather we get harder.
We turn to stone, abandoning humanity and mercy. The overwhelming madness of war breaks against us like waves breaking against the rocky shoreline. It washes away who we are, who we used to be.
Yet not all can be washed away
The relics of our violence. The ghosts of our brutality. The bridges to our ruthless past we try so hard to burn.
Some things are forever woven into the fabric of time which clothes us all.
“No Sargent, you’re dead wrong”
It’s not that it gets easier, rather we get harder.
We turn to stone, abandoning humanity and mercy. The overwhelming madness of war breaks against us like waves breaking against the rocky shoreline. It washes away who we are, who we used to be.
Yet not all can be washed away
The relics of our violence. The ghosts of our brutality. The bridges to our ruthless past we try so hard to burn.
Some things are forever woven into the fabric of time which clothes us all.
