Of power and glory...

...no one wins. Only the greedy succeed, and they are never the ones to fight and die on the plains. Instead, we continue our death march: Weary and slain. Exhausted. Days are murky pink and muddled grey. A dark smoky crimson. It rarely helps anymore. I did not intend for this, never this. Never this.

I have kept this poem for years...it speaks to me in a way that is amazing.

The Soldier, by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Of a soldier.

I knew a man once, many years ago. One might say I knew him in passing. He was a leader in some ways, though he tried not to think of it in that manner. He tried instead to think of his duties as a way of life. Born as a Protector, he did all he could to strive toward his goal in doing the best as he was able. Often, he succeeded in that. There were failures too, of course, as there always are. One cannot acheive absolute perfection.

He worked in tandem with another, a Guardian. This Guardian came from afar in search of peace. He had led an existence filled with strife and despair, much in the same way the Protector had. They shared an understanding. However, this Guardian brought with him War. Granted, the enemy had always been there, but the Guardian brought the enemy closer than ever, and the Wars escalated. The Protector stayed behind to keep safe the small ones, whilst at the same time watching the world Outside, knowing the dangers there as well.

It was nearly nine years ago that the Guardian was killed, presumably in action. The Protector was lost, set adrift by this new situation, and had no choice but to take up the Guardian's duties, as well. It was a matter of honor and respect. It had to be done.

The Protector floundered in this new position. He had become Guardian Protector and Battalion Commander all at once, and in the early days of the transition, he committed several grieveous sins. His rage got the best of him, and in that, he did nothing but perpetuate the atrocities occuring. He did unto others as was done to him, and even whilst committing these acts, he knew it was wrong...yet, he continued, with a mixture of self-loathing and unholy glee battling for his heart.

He thinks back to those days, I am told. In doing so, he recalls his short-comings and tries to learn from them, as I really do not believe he is quite so evil a man as some may think. he ponders upon these things when a paramount decision is to be made; one that will forever change what he knows and cares for. He has such a decision now, and he believes he has made the correct choice, but fear still grips him, and he wonders.

I keep in contact with him from time to time, and I wonder, as well. One can only hope he really has grown, and has learned, and has risen above the past.

This burden.

More each day: more images, recollections, knowledge.

I sense that I should feel a resignation to my fate, and yet, I would rather die trying.

We cannot break her. It is not meant to be.

It is growing increasingly clear that what is meant to happen will indeed happen, whether or not I give my blessing.

I pray I am incorrect, and my paranoia has gotten the best of me.

More later.

Now a family tradition.

Bastille Day was yesterday. We traditionally celebrate it with a light meal of Brie, or Camambert, a warm baguette, and perhaps a glass of wine or a mild soup, while viewing a French film. Yesterday, however, was also our weekly meeting with our young-adult group at church, and so we celebrated today.

This year, not only did the parents participate, but the sister and her family as well. It is interesting and somewhat flattering to see this turn into a family tradition. In all honesty, I do wish that we knew more in the ways of French cuisine, but now we have a year until the next time; I am certain one of us can begin researching that. Even so, it was a good day, and one of the few holidays we celebrate that is not marred by a negative memory.

A day in the life.

Today was a rather easy day at work. We were verifying conduit, and spent much of the day reading blueprints and using immense amounts of duct tape.

However, things became far more complicated at the end of the shift: Las Vegas Boulevard South was completely closed off for several blocks. At first we assumed a film crew was working on something, and then thought perhaps the demolition crews were getting ready to finish the implosion at the Desert Inn. As we got closer to the construction garage, we noticed dozens of Metro squad cars, ambulances, fire-trucks, and a few unmarked white vans. No one was allowed to retrieve personal vehicles except at ten workers at a time, and those parked at the Stardust were told they would not be allowed to even cross to stow their belongings. The Frontier was being evacuated, and traffic was being rerouted to avoid the entire area. Most of us were caught between curiosity and a mild apprehension.

SWAT team members there told us it was a bomb threat...something not unheard of on the Strip, but still, it was odd. Especially since both the Frontier and the Stardust are older casinos...one would think any would-be terrorist or the like would choose a larger, newer, better-known casino. Hopefully, this is a silly childish prank.

In other, completely unrelated news, we have abstained from any intentional self-harm in nearly a week. I now assume that the sudden descent into the Spiral was only temporary...a good thing.

Keeping hope.

There is another side of war, another brighter side. When one mentions the very word, it brings an influx of images: strewn bodies, the smell of blood and gunpowder, shrill cries, heartache, and grim determination. Truth be known, those are the basics of war, yes. Every soldier knows those moments, and often his heart is heavy with them. However, stoicism is a soldier's best friend, is he can achieve it. A quote: "...Anything that gets in the way of success has to be eliminated—emotion, fear, pain. It's the mental things that will impede your survival."--Colby Coombs

What few realize is this other side. Nights of laughter, stolen moments of whispered stories of first loves and hidden dreams. Firelight that reflects off each man's eyes...eyes that are not always set ablaze in fear or pain, but sometimes with genuine glee and relaxation. Sometimes we have even been known to set up an impromptu game of poker. There is a sense of brotherhood between us. Those who would never sing, sing. Those who would never dance, dance. There are no boundaries, and the blood spilled by one onto the rest is the blood of more than a friend, more than a comrade. We must partake in these carefree moments, because otherwise, the mind would go insane with the worry , insane with the pain and fear and dread. And if war were something that were a constant barrage of grenades and gunfire, then soldiers would likely lose themselves to suicide before losing themselves to enemy fire.

You see, not every day is construed of dodging bullets that no one can possibly dodge. War has its tedious moments, too. Cleaning machinery, for instance. Or the days spent walking in a spider's trail from one post to another...versus, of course, the days spent huddled in a strategic position, unable to move for the fear of losing it.

These light moments...we hold onto them. It happens more often that one may think.

Sliding deeper into this.

Admittedly, it has gotten much worse in the past few weeks. I can think of quite a few reasons, but none of them matter; the problem is that I do not, not why. "Why" never seems to matter.They tell me I am the logical one, the one born to this, and yet the only one capable of stopping one of us from cutting too deeply, or burning with such malice that it cannot heal. I despise such assumptions. I struggle, as anyone else. There are issues here, now, and of course I try to resolve them. Issues Inside, and a definite issue Outside, at the jobsite, and I must remain calm? How can that be? Why must I be the one, always, to maintain a sense of calm?
Wednesday was worse than I would have liked---I know, I always say that. But Wednesday, I cut far too deep, and had to remedy it. I only left it to that for a day, and when it reopened, I merely applied some PVC glue to it. It burned, my God, it felt as if acid were bubbling inside the wound. But now it is closed, and there is no infection. We will still have to wear something to cover it up; as of late, we ahve resorted to wristbands. Since Bruyere is female, we can get away with it, really: she delights in the "girly" ones, with animated characters featured on them. I would rather us wear more neutral colors and designs, but we must compromise. At any rate...I do worry, because this level of self-harm is reminiscent of years ago, when Sulekhi was in the forefront. I cannot allow that to happen.

Psalm 55, 20-21 (KJV)

"20 He hath put forth his hands against such as be at peace with him: he hath broken his covenant.
21 The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart: his words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords."


This is me. My heart is beset with war, and yet I smile toward my enemy. My soul is drenched with rage and despair. My misery is my own, and really, I know the reason. I was a Beast then, until God calmed me. I have strayed far since then. It is likely why I am so unstable. It is likely why things seem hopeless. He changed me before; I should allow Him to change me again.