First Day of the War

The skies turned dark to match my heart, this is the first day of the war. For so long the oucasts have been murdered in waves upon waves, being burried amidst where fecile matter is deposited. I knew it in my heart, something had to change, and it sure as hell wasn’t me. I would look deep inside myself and find answers to the questions that not even the ancient Greek minds could comprehend. And right there, I have become thrown, casted, abondoned into the hedgemaze of reality; of the mind. I look towards the heavens in the sky and knew that they weren’t there anymore. All I saw was deep and dark rain clouds, thunderheads hovering in the air with an ominous undertone of black and grey hues. Thunderclap! Lightning in this place travels across the skies, and not down to earth. Or whatever earth this is. The soil is tainted with red dust and the remains of once beautiful, full, and ric rose bushes, are now just a grouping of rancid petals caught in the wake of something called death. I tried to jump over, or at least get a peek over past the bordering hedges of this hedge maze. I grasped some of the leaves in hope of leverage for myself to leap over the top, and they all were as sharp as razors! I fell straight to the ground wrestling with myself in agony as this amazing red liquid that can give live, was leaving me in design to end life. All of a sudden, I’m back into the battle. Like 17th and 18th century combat, swords and shields. This is the part I loved the most of these battles, the point just before war begins. When you and a thousand of your guys stare into the eyes of a thousand enemies and thier eyes. This is the point when you realize that your are not just killing some guy with a sword; but, you’re killing a father, a son, a husband, or a brother. I like to know that I have controll over my own destiny, but by taking control of thiers and killing them, I can save my own. I was once told that a man without a weapon is a farmer, and a man with a weapon is a soldier. Farmer or soldier ? Farmer or soldier? Soldier. I am and always will be a soldier. I take lives to protect my own and those of my commrades in the heat of battle. The charge was signaled, and my thousand guys ran into the thousand of thier guys, thus battle is committed. Nothing but the sounds of metal hitting metal, leather hitting itself, and the festered screams of the wounded are all I hear as battle begins, when the first few rows of men collapse the perimeter of the enemy. Hand to hand combat breaks out like an over-abundance of plague, everybody is infected with it. I for myself take my first four kills and look to the ground. Severred arms, legs heads, torsos cut in half. Such is war. So much blood is spilled, the soil turns to red. Combat percieved and went on like any other hobby the could be taken up. Like, it was nothing to kill. Killing and killing and murdering and murdering until they were all dead, and only half of my forces were lost. I hear running footsteps behnd me, coming towards me. An enmeny soldier takes a swing of his sword right at my neck. But, I woke up. I was back in my room. Floor covered in clothes, walls covered in posters of heavy metal bands, and the air slightly thickened by the cigarette smoke. I shook my head gently and just thought of the death I’d done in my dream. I swung my feet out from under the covers, and took a step on the cold carpetted floor. But, it wasn’t right, my feet were muddy, there was still blood on my hands. I threw the sheets off my bed, but it suprised me. There was the sword I used in my dream. I grabbed it by the hilt, slid the scabbard off, and amazed myself in the warm light reflected by the edge of the sword’s blade. But, in the horribly clear realization of what was to come, I just whispered to myself, “The war has jut begun.”