Few people understand the true colors of war. They think only of the colors of their flag, their banners, and the medals that come afterward. They don’t understand until faced with that moment when morals become entangled with fear, and everything blurs red.
I’ve seen it over and over again. Scars must form quickly over the gashing wounds if there’s any hope for survival, and these scars decorate the shadows of the mind for the rest of one’s life.
Time does not apply on the battlefield. Every moment, every second, is a desperate cling to life. Young men are aged by their sights and their deeds, wishing rather to have gone blind and for the darkness to enter their mind and dullen their memories. Their faces remain trapped in the agony of the time that is lost and the peaceful dreams that are gone.
Smoke and ash make the soul hard. Bullets strike where love might’ve grown. The strongest soldiers are shells of what could have been until the light at last enters their eyes, and the desire to fight is gone.
In war, one becomes acquainted with death. We see him watching from the shadows, and he follows our every turn. He bites at our heels every time we try to flee and beckons to us softly in the still and dark night. Some embrace his open arms while others scream and grasp at anything as he drags them away. I simply try to stay out of his sight, with eyes closed refusing to see him.
Yes, war is a brutal thing. I watch the young men laugh and jest around remembering when I was just a youth. In this dark void where feelings once thrived, I almost feel a little sad because they have no idea that they are about to walk through the gates where few truly return. A place that is probably the closest to hell that has ever been seen on the earth.