Summary: A letter on war from a child who dies again.
Length: 210 words.
I write this from my grave.
There is nobody to save us. We are already ghosts here, bearing the weight of memories, regrets, lost hopes and dreams. All the heroes have killed themselves, are killing themselves or have already been killed.
Life is a broken film reel.
Memories, across these hollow sockets, flicker; the bittersweetness of names linger on our rotten tongues, past laughters pelt on our trodden skulls like rain.
The doom and gloom of happy days — our blind faith, our ignorant youth, our war-torn world — flood these long spoiled lungs. Because we have all been fools, thinking war is the good against the evil, the light and the dark, the rights and the wrongs.
The real battle begins as evil corrupts evil, light burns light, rights and wrongs forming allies to murder part of themselves instead of each other.
That is the war, the fight without soldiers, men or women, but with children, devastatingly alone with no one to turn to, grappling for the wrong sort of attention because any is better than none at all.
War is not death.
War is not carnage.
War is hopes, dreams and futures long shrivelled within the marrow of our bones.
The moment we declare war, we have already lost.