This Is Just One Sentence!

war by chagall

You were told that war is like a concealed breath, a breath you’d never gain back, or a rain made of worms bursting into butterflies of death, or a blazing mist penetrating your eyes in a way you couldn’t distinguish between the good, the bad and the bystanders, that you couldn’t judge with empathy and impartiality and lucidity -and with all these naughty “ty” adjectives which used to be right one day – anymore since this is what war does to you, this separation from what you used to be as if the past becomes like Kafka’s Castle, a place you’d never reach, a place where you don’t even know if it exists or has ever existed, a place where you used to enjoy this tasteless, meaningless, loveless ordinary life, but during the times of war every matter becomes a matter of death, even life itself, and this is how, in this absurd way you lose your own meaning since war like a random deluge destroys everything you own or you don’t in its invasion, and this is why the children of war are always orphans no matter what, even though they still live with their parents and all parents of war have already lost their children even though they can touch them and kiss them and call them on the phone every day to tell them they love them, and yet they’re all dead, and you can’t believe that living only one hour under the bombing is something you’d carry with you, on your back, under your nails during your whole life since war kills everyone, no matter who they are and to which camp they belong, since it makes you rootless in just a second while you’re there waiting in silence waiting for your destiny to fall on you like a collapsing roof, and that’s what it does to you- you were told—and before you knew it and before you too had to go through this one night of waiting in a dark room or maybe under your bed next to the same ghosts that had always made you scared and when it was your time you too become one of those living dead who couldn’t stop talking and dreaming about the past, someone like everyone else, and you discover you weren’t that special anymore and that in your transformation you’ve lost all your friends and enemies along with so many parts of your naiveté and optimism, and that you can’t open up to anyone since everyone lies during the times of war, and you learn not to complain about lack of art, water or good food, that you’re void of any compassion for humanity since after all even your enemies are humans like you, and you learn that happiness is just another word but misery is the real deal and you hate the fact that your life has turned into a 3D action movie where villains and heroes look alike, and your disappointment expands so much that there’s no way it could fit in one single lifetime, and when the war is over, no matter how empty you feel, you’re always filled with your loss, that no matter how lonely you are, you’re still longing for your solitude- now swamped with all those cynical cadavers of your dreams– that no matter how hard you try to forget, you would still remember and there’s no way, no way you could escape from it, you’re told.

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About lifeacrossthesun

Writer/ 2011 PEN USA Emerging Voices fellow
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