War Anguish

I have felt up to this point that my life has lacked direction. The wind blows against my cheek and I watch the leaves flutter to whichever direction they are lead. I do not feel the wind against me as I focus on the most meaningless of things.

I have stood on a hill and overlooked the vast wastelands of a desert. I have seen the storms blow sand through the valleys of broken vehicles and aged rocks. I sense something peaceful in the sky, the red sun dawning for the arrival of another vicious day. I do not feel the warmth of the sun. I only feel the cold of death, and I remember the lost souls who once drove the sand-worn rusted trucks.

In the night, I walk with my rifle down the coast of the beaches of the gulf. I smell the sea and hear the roar of the tides as the moon makes it's descent over the horizon. The way the moonlight and stars sparkle against the crests of the waves harmoniously. I should feel at peace but instead I hear the screams of war as another molded boot beaches in front of me.

I smile and kick a soccer ball in the dirt with the children outside my home. They seem friendly, their beaming smiles, their giggling; they cheer happily. I chuckle and toss them some candy. I kick a goal and they ask for another round. They are competitive children and I agree to another game. I should be entertained, but I feel they only want to beat me and grow up to hate me.

I walk the streets and kick in the doors of the citizens who want me dead. I look about and we charge to bring them to justice. Clearing the house we find no one, the room is empty and it always has been. I should feel like I'm doing my part but instead I feel that these people are only playing games with us.

As I return to the States, I am left in anguish, wondering if what I have done over there has made any difference. Had I changed the life of one individual, I would feel accomplished. Have I made a change at all? Sometimes I feel that what I've done is nothing but cause more heartache for the torn society which knows nothing but hate. My resolve is standing on a foundation of failing cement. My walls are rotted and the roof leaks and all I have to show for any accomplishment is a cheap metallic star made of bronze.

Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I suffer. Sometimes I cry. The future is perplexing. How shall history remember me?

Carry on soldier, they tell me. There's always someone else to fight.