What the hell am I doing here? What the fuck am I trying to prove and who am I trying to prove it too? The people who loved me would still have loved me if I never came out here, and wherever I am I’m still there. I followed myself to Shippensburg, to Benning and to El Paso. And now Iraq. But out here I’m cornered with nothing to do but think.
People tell me their proud of me, that they respect me. No one understands, and anyone that does is just like me; they force it deep down where it just sits and rots. My insides are black. They are blood that is vomited up from the pit of my stomach, tar that tastes sour and salty and burns as it forces its way to the surface. And just like bloody vomit the act of spewing it out is cathartic, but it can never be enjoyed. It must be covered up, forced back down and played off.
Everyone says things will be great when I come home. But I’ll still be there. The world will still be there. And this experience will have only succeeded in adding more weight to my burden. So I will do nothing but shrug my shoulders and settle the load across my back as I trudge on. But as tired as I am and as rotten my insides are I am still young and strong and stubborn. And that is what truly keeps me going. Because as impossible as everything is I am too stupid and too angry and too proud to just give up and die.
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