Numb

"The days bleed into nights and the nights bleed into days and there’s really no point in acknowledging the difference anymore. The sun just means we drink more water, the night just means we live in the green world of night vision rather than the grey world of day vision. Patrol. Eat. Sleep. Patrol. Go to meeting. Patrol. Eat. Make phone calls home and ignore the strain in their voices since they're doing the same. Patrol. Sleep. Get woken up in a panic, it’s time for a new and Fragolicious. Patrol.

If my calendar hadn’t hung itself in the winter, it would tell me that we’re a third of the way through the deployment. That’s something, at least. Something tangible. Something concrete. Something that seems far too long and far too short all at the same time. Time over here just doesn’t make sense. It does make cents, though, which you know. Matters to some people.

(AMERICAN DISCLAIMER: It’s easy to be flippant about money when you’ve always been comfortable and are only responsible for ensuring that such flippancy remains one’s only responsibility.)

There’s nothing new to this war, anymore. Same threats. Same bitches and gripes. Same bad guys, even if they have new faces. Same lie that death is the ultimate consequence. Same truth that death is the ultimate release. Same old rivalries, same old skirmishes, same old riding to the sound of the guns because no one else will. I’d comment on that ambiguously hollow word “progress,” but I realize such would be unfair since the tip of the blade isn’t supposed to understand the motion of the sword as a whole. (Although it has a pretty fucking good idea this time around.) I’ve accomplished everything I’ve wanted to personally, now it’s just a matter of avoiding complacency and ensuring the platoon does the same.

Remember. It’s better to be lucky than good. And that truth has nothing to do with war."
Kaboom