TM Prompt -- The past is never dead...
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun.
He cannot escape from what has been done. Essentially he wouldn’t be the same person if he could. Every order tossed at him, every victim and every loved one who lost their life and their physical in this world existed for a reason.
There are some days he realizes this. These are the days he withdraws himself from whatever society he may haunt. He reflects on how far he has come, what he has not accomplished but still cannot find the answer to the significant and ultimate question: Why? Why did people leave his life as quickly as they returned? Why couldn’t his trigger finger ignore the pleading of his heart? Why had he been on Oceanic Flight 815? Why was he still bound to it? From living in a country ravaged by the heat of the desert and conflict to a promised land that turned out to be as hungry for blood as any man. Now, he was back to the civilized world and felt robbed by the constant need for blood. For that liquid to be feeling his veins, he feels he has seen and sees far too much of it. It belongs to the heart.
Other days he does not know or he pretends as if things are different. He looks at the faces of those surrounding him in the café and wonders what makes them smile. That, somehow, they have cheated or avoided a terrible fate. Then he feels the heavy weight on his shoulders and wonders who put it there: himself or a terrible God. That’s when his fingers become truly powerful and can flick the tiny metallic trigger that is the deciding factor of life and death. Still, it is only some time before he returns to the previous state of mind.
Either way he feels as if he is truly an island. Perhaps he is surrounded, but still existing alone in the ocean. The past has caused a drift in the land, and yet here he remains.
334
He cannot escape from what has been done. Essentially he wouldn’t be the same person if he could. Every order tossed at him, every victim and every loved one who lost their life and their physical in this world existed for a reason.
There are some days he realizes this. These are the days he withdraws himself from whatever society he may haunt. He reflects on how far he has come, what he has not accomplished but still cannot find the answer to the significant and ultimate question: Why? Why did people leave his life as quickly as they returned? Why couldn’t his trigger finger ignore the pleading of his heart? Why had he been on Oceanic Flight 815? Why was he still bound to it? From living in a country ravaged by the heat of the desert and conflict to a promised land that turned out to be as hungry for blood as any man. Now, he was back to the civilized world and felt robbed by the constant need for blood. For that liquid to be feeling his veins, he feels he has seen and sees far too much of it. It belongs to the heart.
Other days he does not know or he pretends as if things are different. He looks at the faces of those surrounding him in the café and wonders what makes them smile. That, somehow, they have cheated or avoided a terrible fate. Then he feels the heavy weight on his shoulders and wonders who put it there: himself or a terrible God. That’s when his fingers become truly powerful and can flick the tiny metallic trigger that is the deciding factor of life and death. Still, it is only some time before he returns to the previous state of mind.
Either way he feels as if he is truly an island. Perhaps he is surrounded, but still existing alone in the ocean. The past has caused a drift in the land, and yet here he remains.
334