A/N: The product of my ramblings and my annoyance with a contest prompt on dA. Oh, and my inner England hijacking my brain.
If love is a battlefield, then we're screwed. We're screwed since we either have to love with holes in our chests or we're screwing each other. I do believe the latter is the preferable option.
If love is a battlefield, then whoever made up that saying obviously has never been on a real battlefield. War is far more all-encompassing than love, involving more than just a few. War matters far more, in the end.
And love isn't nearly that bloody, even if it is your first time.
Don't give me any of that metaphorical, allegorical, sentimental, cliché crap. Love comes nowhere close to being a battlefield. It's not even close if you're making love on the battlefield.
(I wanted to once, but that's called pedophilia and it is frowned upon in most societies. Plus, I was having a bit of an angst-fest, so that put a damper on things.)
Maybe love matters to humans, but humans are insufferably stupid and perhaps it makes them feel like they're worth something. Love for nations means nothing. It can get you killed or get your heart broken, which are almost the same.
But nations are immortal, and the whole heartbreak thing gets old after a few centuries. God knows we've all felt it. That's probably why America doesn't understand things. He's far too young to have become jaded and cynical, a boring old man like me.
For his sake, I rather hope he stays that way. Cynicism gets old as well.
So, if love is a battlefield, then I put up my sword when my empire fell. Love became useless as I did, the both of us sliding back into dusty corners and becoming mere words in books no one bothers to read. Perhaps the notion should make me depressed and send me over to the pub.
But it doesn't. I'm not that foolish. The thought that I'm all used up simply makes me laugh. The world's as used up as I am. It just doesn't know that yet.
I'm not a bitter old man crying into his tea, after all. Firstly, tears would make the tea taste dreadful, and I'm not one to ruin a perfectly fine cup of tea over a 200 year-old memory. And perhaps I'm bitter, but bitter is a good taste now and again.
I'll admit to being old, and male as well, but I'm not the oldest one out there. I actually enjoy being old at times, for I fear that if I were young, I would turn out like Alfred and I would never wish that upon myself.
If love is a battlefield, then are the cutting words bullets and the bright spots like cease-fires? Is the inevitable breakup akin to an atomic bomb? (Or any other sort of bomb, really. I call to your attention to the phrase "drop the bomb".) In my mind, the analogy only goes so far, and is a weak one at that. There is so much more to war than there is to love.
All's fair in love and war, and I beg to differ. There are rules to each, a code of conduct, although I remember a day when war had no rules but "kill the other guy and stay alive in the process". I miss those days. Love hasn't changed a bit, though. It's still far too complicated and far too useless for a man such as myself.
You see, I can be fairly reasonable if I wish to be, and therefore I don't plan on expending an unnecessary amount of energy and heartache for something that will get me nothing. I tried it once, and it landed me on my knees on a muddy battlefield.
It used to hurt to think of it, and at times it still does. But I've moved on. I'm no whiny girl in a romance movie. I loved and I moved on. It may sound insensitive, but immortality would be a sad place if we didn't let go of the past.
The past is hard to let go of, though. It clings to you with an iron grip and whispers into your ear things you wish you didn't have to hear. "Look," it tells me. "Look and see how you aren't so absolutely invincible anymore."
I ignore the past because I've seen enough. I've seen enough love and war and the hate that comes with peace to know that sex and the front lines are totally different things.
Love isn't a battlefield and I'll tell you why. Love isn't sweat pouring down the back of your scratchy uniform, bombs bursting around you, blood and pus oozing from a dozen wounds that you ignore in order to cut down a few more human beings. Love isn't the adrenaline rush or the laughter that slices through your throat as your blade or gun or makeshift weapon slides through air and flesh and you're laughing because you're alive, so damn alive, and the other guy isn't.
Love isn't wild. That's sex, kids. Love is soft and subtle, sneaking in like a surprise attack. It's more like green grass and sky the color of big blue eyes and hair like the sun that's shining down upon the clichéd scene. Love is a tiny hand barely fitting in yours, knowing that you're not invincible and that's fine. It's the moments that take your breath away even if you don't realize it until later. Love is when you'll give up everything you ever cared about for another, even if that means giving up the one you're sacrificing for.
Trust me. I've been there, done that.
It's only when you fail that you're bitter. I still don't cry. I'm done with crying. What good does it do, anyway?
I used to like war better, and then I changed my mind. Of course, I was later dropped into the mud because I was a jerk, a bastard, and I deserved it, of course, but that didn't stop the tears.
I don't like either of them now. I like tea and old books, the rain touching the sidewalk and the rare occasions when I can see the stars on a summer night. I like honey-blonde and sky blue and hamburger grease and freedom. Fucking freedom.
I am an old man, all used up, and I still laugh at the world because it can remember when it was mine. That doesn't mean it will, but it can, and so I laugh. I laugh because if I didn't, I might forget that I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive and breathing and here I am.
If love is a battlefield, then tell me this: who is the victor? I doubt there could be a draw, a situation where everyone wins. That only happens on children's television.
Hello, darling. I just wanted you to know that you're everything that's fair in love and war.
I've got another one for you. If love is a battlefield, then you'd better get your Nerf gun.