I remember a time before the war, when the land knew peace. A time when men were brave, and strong, and that was alright. When women were kind, and gentle, and that was alright. A time when children were loud and giggly, and that was alright. But then the war found us, and ever since, nothing is alright.

The men turned rough and roudy, intent on proving to their fathers and grandfathers that they had not failed at raising men. The bloodshed of every battle prooves their stature as a man to be deserving, even as tears are shed, as bones and minds are shattered alike. The screams of their enemies deafen them, so that they fail to hear the screams of their comrades. They are men, through and through, yet they are not the men their fathers and grandfathers hoped to raise.

The women, once kind and gentle, now sit alone in cold homes without so much as a shiver. Their gentle touch tainted by bloodstains, their kindness unable to comprehend the sorrow surrounding them, they remain stoic as stone statues, and equally cold to the touch. They once hoped for a family to call their own, yet now they wished they had never so much as met them, so as to avoid the pain of a broken heart. No manner of warmth will ever thaw the cold now residing within them.

The children, who brought light into the lives of those they touched, now take shelter in the darkness. Their families, their whole worlds, split apart in the blink of an eye. No more laughter is heard from them, and no morsel of sound is permitted for their survival. They remain silent throughout their days, an unspoken air of understanding among them all.

And I, the man who brought forth such a fate, sit here around a warm fire with my lovely family, with a gentle, kind wife and two loud, giggling children. I am not a rough and roudy man, nor do I ever hope to be, yet how can I endure this world I have cast into existence, knowing the fate of those I have forsaken to roam it. Looking idly at my children, and into the eyes of my beloved, I ask myself for the thousandth time: Is this the type of man my father and grandfather wished me to be?

The chill of a cold summer morning brings forth appropriately bitter utterances of response. As blinding pale sunlight cuts through the bright sky, piercing whatever clouds dare linger, a simultaneous breeze carries by, sterilizing whatever warmth the soft rays held. The light, robbed of it’s substance, proceeds to blind those unfortunate enough to greet it’s steely gaze with a perilous white abyss that may only be escaped by the soft embrace of darkness. With a sigh akin to that of a wounded animal steadily accepting it’s own demise, they carry themselves forward with heavy steps, embarking upon a new day with countless more defilements to come.