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"I don't fit in this world. It is meerly an ongoing representation of what I've always thought I wanted."
That is what the life-warrior ponders as well-weathered screens and long-lingering shrouds slowly begin to fall from a frame recently ill prepared for the war he'd wandered through. From birth until now he had always assumed that though life led him where it was wont to, he really in the end was happy to be in that moment. Though now, for the first moment in a long, painful series of them, he was no longer sure.
Isn't it pain that always brings us those few clearest moments of epiphany?
His body, well weakened by worrisome wanting and grasps, would only be likened to something sickly if one felt particularly generous. Without a scrap of scathed and scathing metal and malformed shells this new frame of his could only really be called skeletal.
Though really what are we describing here?
How best is it to imagine a man whose physical being was truthfully almost unscathed, especially under careful consideration of the newly missing pieces of heart and soul he no longer sported. For it was not the physical specimen you could not wrench your eyes away from in this moment. It was his obviously, obtrusively, and unmistakably newly wrenched sense of self, safety, and well-being.
Without his armor, a man may still yet be of the manly shape.
However, without his soul, even the most (previously) magnificently magnanimous being can at best hope to be a wretched sickly thing.
That is what the life-warrior ponders as well-weathered screens and long-lingering shrouds slowly begin to fall from a frame recently ill prepared for the war he'd wandered through. From birth until now he had always assumed that though life led him where it was wont to, he really in the end was happy to be in that moment. Though now, for the first moment in a long, painful series of them, he was no longer sure.
Isn't it pain that always brings us those few clearest moments of epiphany?
His body, well weakened by worrisome wanting and grasps, would only be likened to something sickly if one felt particularly generous. Without a scrap of scathed and scathing metal and malformed shells this new frame of his could only really be called skeletal.
Though really what are we describing here?
How best is it to imagine a man whose physical being was truthfully almost unscathed, especially under careful consideration of the newly missing pieces of heart and soul he no longer sported. For it was not the physical specimen you could not wrench your eyes away from in this moment. It was his obviously, obtrusively, and unmistakably newly wrenched sense of self, safety, and well-being.
Without his armor, a man may still yet be of the manly shape.
However, without his soul, even the most (previously) magnificently magnanimous being can at best hope to be a wretched sickly thing.