The war, Baby.
The lines. So many of them it seems, interconnected and weaving a spider’s web of expression (exhaustion) on my face. My face. My Insomnia. My card. I present me and myself to you, my expression (exhaustion) for you to see. Is it not enough to just get through the day without having killed or been killed, to keep your job, to love your wife/partner/mistress/friends? What does the world want from me at this hour – always? Why does it not let me sleep?
We went through the war, Baby. Almost 15 years, you and I. Our war. Troughs deep as trenches, trapping body, poison, blood but offering shelter. A temporary escape? Choose the sniper’s bullet or machine-gun mow-down. The result’s the same. Bleeding, twitching body on the ground. Life-draining.
The war Baby. Those truces. Those long (but not long forgotten) truces. Not a trough or trench in sight. Poppy-field sunrise. Blackbird reveille. No scars, bullet wounds or barbed-wire kisses. Just us: and the world. When did you realise that Baby? Just us.
What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.
My Words, My World 