The end? The beginning? The great drama, the great conflict. It is the culmination of our lives, it is the destination we have journeyed towards since birth, and we have no idea what it is.
Disaster, death, celebration. What drives us? what defines...
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When I was young and went to war, a bullet came a calling. I don't know why it sought us out, there's pain in this recalling.
It is the sweat that I can feel long after all the faces disappeared. It was the heat and all the thousand shades of green. It was the rain, the river, and the shore, it was the jungle birds and blood, it was that convoluted quest called war.
Pete had just had breakfast, powdered eggs and ham, heated by that stove too long until the yellow turned to gray. He was singing loudly, the birds joined in it seemed. It was the Rolling Stones he sang from Aftermath that day
And then a crack of sound not loud, but sharper than the jungle noise rang out. His face exploded toward me, smiling still and mouthing "Paint it black". The world went silent, The jungle, hushed now post attack.
I grabbed him as he fell, and then a second crack, a whip within the wilderness was heard. his neck blew out and with it came a demon carved in lead, made holy by the blood and bone it held. I swear I saw it as it pierced my face, as Pete became a part of me forever.
A bullet came a calling and it found us both that day, when I was young and went to war and Peter went away.
