I've been running through this minefield. Wildly. Blindly. Numbly.
I ran and ran and ran...
Until I broke out into a field.
In the field was a war, but it was beautiful.
A beautiful blue sky with the brightest warmest sun spilling gently onto the lush greenery. Small purple flowers dapple the landscape. Taller orange flowers reach up to the sun whose image they emulate almost perfectly, delightfully. Despite the pleasantness of this scene, a bloody battle rages.
Many of the soldiers lay dying. The strongest are worn deeply, but still they fight on.
This field is within me. The battle my own. I know not which side I fight for.
Either is a losing battle, it rages endlessly. The cause changes and the intensity ebbs and flows, but they do not know how to do anything else. They fight on. I fight on. We run ourselves ragged.
I picked the sun-like flowers from the field and dried them. Trying to preserve that beauty. That perfection. A memorial to the sun they battled for that day. Only to see the brilliant colors fade, and the petals fall. The rays falling from the sun. They shine on no one now. All that remains are the pitiful little stems, barely green, shriveled and pathetically, desperately trying to hold what isn't there.
The real sun too has set, gone to shine on new horizons; and now we wait for a new cause, a new reason for the fight.
But still we fight on. Mindlessly. Trained out of habit.
A fighting machine.
Why?
Why fight for something that cannot be obtained - save for a fleeting moment? For something so silly as the sun? Why fight a battle that cannot be won?
Because something inside me whispered this is what to do.
I could not disobey; as if my life depended on it.
It was a very desperate whisper.
Until I broke out into a field.
In the field was a war, but it was beautiful.
A beautiful blue sky with the brightest warmest sun spilling gently onto the lush greenery. Small purple flowers dapple the landscape. Taller orange flowers reach up to the sun whose image they emulate almost perfectly, delightfully. Despite the pleasantness of this scene, a bloody battle rages.
Many of the soldiers lay dying. The strongest are worn deeply, but still they fight on.
This field is within me. The battle my own. I know not which side I fight for.
Either is a losing battle, it rages endlessly. The cause changes and the intensity ebbs and flows, but they do not know how to do anything else. They fight on. I fight on. We run ourselves ragged.
I picked the sun-like flowers from the field and dried them. Trying to preserve that beauty. That perfection. A memorial to the sun they battled for that day. Only to see the brilliant colors fade, and the petals fall. The rays falling from the sun. They shine on no one now. All that remains are the pitiful little stems, barely green, shriveled and pathetically, desperately trying to hold what isn't there.
The real sun too has set, gone to shine on new horizons; and now we wait for a new cause, a new reason for the fight.
But still we fight on. Mindlessly. Trained out of habit.
A fighting machine.
Why?
Why fight for something that cannot be obtained - save for a fleeting moment? For something so silly as the sun? Why fight a battle that cannot be won?
Because something inside me whispered this is what to do.
I could not disobey; as if my life depended on it.
It was a very desperate whisper.