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I have begun to write this. It is fragments of the novel I hope to write one day. |
| It never occurred to me that it wasn't safe; that each time I would open my bedroom door and tread into the unknown that I was actually entering a battlefield. The sound of bombs exploding on the other side of the door would spark me to move into protective and offensive action, like a soldier. Bombs were made of broken glass, broken chairs, and broken bones. Little did I know that one poor strategic movement on my part could've led to casualities. I didn't start this war. I just fought in it and fought against it. I got hurt in it, but just like any other war, it is usually not the ones who start the war who suffer the most. It is the soldiers that are put in the middle. Often if they are not robbed of their life, then they are at least robbed of part of their soul. I wore an armor of bravery unlike any other. I fought soldiers much larger than me; sometimes winning and sometimes being flung to the floor after getting ripped from the ropes of their helmets. I remember years later when my brother prepared to enter into a different type of battlefield, I told him, "It takes s*** to make good soil. It nurtures the roots and elicits growth." The war I had continued to fight in; the lives I was saving and protecting; and the struggle to sprout up in the middle of chaos was all the s*** in my soil. It was what caused my roots to dig deep, take a firm hold, and elicit my growth. Well, at least that is what I told myself. |
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