Disabandoned writing stuff

[Adrian]

I am not proud of what I did. I am also not proud of writing the things I plan and am going to do. This, when discovered, could be considered treason under my country’s military laws, and not the glory and gratitude of my people would welcome me, but the cold barrel of a gun or a hanging rope from the gallows, that would swing in the nightly breeze.
Due to the exceptional circumstances, though, I have lost all faith in nations and therefore, men, who pettily argue and fight among themselves, mongrels and dogs of war barking on short leashes, barking feverishly over the voices of reason and citizens – the ones that suffer in the end, and pay the most horrible cost of all by losing someone to whom love was shown in the name of our militant ogres.
Although I do feel the elementary loyalty towards my superior officers, I am now placing all my bets toward my faith in pure reason. After gone through Normandy and worse, where I have seen men being ripped to shreds by the merciless ravaging of a machine-gun, spitting out its seeds of odd death, where I have seen men being tossed into the air with shrapnel shortly following them from the landmine they tripped upon, and where I have seen men leaving their lives so suddenly that the bullet of a sniper can cut the words half-sentence from the mouth of the still-smiling soldier – I still can proudly admit that my hands still shake when remembering the events I am typing into consistant words, that I still have a bit of rudimentary humanity in my war-hardened soul and blood.
To those who haven’t seen the reality of the war: the surreal mix of despair with a tainted smell of gunpowder that clogs up the mind in its industrial-fueled hints, those merrily send their sons and husbands into battle – for the glory, for honor!
But dear sons of Man: is there any glory in the demise of your people, who only fight for survival without any other cause and reason but command? Is it an honorable way to die by the hands of a farmer, who is trying to stop his fields being burned down and therefore leaving his family into the bony hands of Hunger? Is it any way to kill a man, to stab through a different coloured uniform, and then looking into the eyes of the dying bastard, as his eyes speak the same language as all civilized Men: why? Is the language, powertripping politics and fear of ourselves really a so great an obstacle, that nations are unable, or even more sinister, unwilling to cross, when the extinction of Man lies on our doorstep – having its invisible, scaly hand at our throats and sneering, although we cannot even see it?
Wouldn’t it be not more honorable, if there is such a thing left in this world yet, if we would die fighting against some unknown, inhuman or pre-human form of defiant existence? Compared to the death due to the bickering and internal strife among us and around us, this would be most honorable, indeed. The bones of the dead philosophers should whisper their truths, their statements into the furthest layers of Hell and Heaven: the man with the highest morals and ethics is not a poet, is not a creator of fine arts, not even a surgeon – but a common soldier carrying out orders and taking lives, ripping and slaying, with a code of honor immeasurable by any other occupation’s practitioner.
These thoughts have been clogging up my mind for the last few days. Or have they even been days? I have not seen sunlight here, an eternal night and darkness under the layers of concrete and stone, where rays of the sun never dare to get lost into. The candle is burning low now: it won’t be long now before I have to take it and head downstairs, through the furnace… how I shiver when walking through that infernal, malevolent creation of a human invention, through the furnace and downwards still, until I shall reach the intricate systems of the caves, that have been hewed into the stone by machines or hands of some strange entities, surely not known to our species.
The backpack next to me is chock-full of grenades and charges. I can only hope that my trusty rifle, that has by now taken so many human lives, will bare with me until the end and do some good to rectify the injustice by sending a couple of… those bastard sons of raped Nature and the cold, distant star into their black pits once again. Sigh… how I wish there is a god or goddess to grant me eternal rest and peace for the deed I am willing to do, for the lives I am willing to save by destroying thousands of others. But will there be anyone to see what heavy a sacrifice a private has given to the human kind on their altars of civilization? I fear not.



***
This is with what I started with, but I re-read it and now think this was too essay-like and non-interesting to the reader. More of a pseudorant, no?

[tolka]

I'm an old pro who's had stuff in World Fantasy Award winning anthologies. And I'll try to stop in from time to time to offer what advice I can and generally help out.