Inspired by this beautiful monster: s/6565449/1/Auf-Wiedersehen-Sweetheart (Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart by George deValier)
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War
(noun)
"A state of armed conflict between different nations or states or different groups within a nation or state."
As if war is something you can define with black and white print in the pages of a dictionary; as if war is something that breeds nothing but hate.
As if every man who's come face to face with an enemy has never seen a piece of himself in the other's eyes, and as the life drains from this foreign creature that is supposedly a devil, felt his own life drain from his calloused body and become nothing more than an artificially invincible shell soaked through with the stench-emitting mindset established within himself long ago that he was fighting for what's right.
No, it's not black and white. It's not even explained in shades of grey.
It's a dizzying 4-dimensional spectrum that feeds off this language of right and wrong, pulling it in and intertwining both "sides" in such complicated ways that makes a man wonder if two sides exist to begin with.
Maybe there are hundreds of sides. Or perhaps only one.
Morals, motivations, all morphing together like aircrafts at the moment of impact, or like lover's fingers that intertwine in lieu of words of their inevitable departure.
We're different, you and I. We observe the same world, the same human race, the same goddamn war. We are both a part of the same thing.
But your soft skin. Your pure light brown eyes. That laugh that flies me away from this bloody mess and shows me an innocence I've never known.
How can I touch you with the same hands that have slaughtered so many? How can I look at you with eyes that have watched your brothers die?
That laugh, that laugh.
I hear it and suddenly my heart extends far past my chest. It spills over and fills every cell in my body until nothing exists of my but this adrenaline-inducing passion that takes control of me and pushes my lips to yours.
There are no words. No words to explain the incredible shock that fills my veins when our lips touch. No words to express the beauty of your smile after we separate again. No words for the absolute fullness that overwhelms me when your head rests on my shoulder. There never have been and never will be, in any spoken language, words to tell you exactly what you mean to me.
But there are words of authority. Words of right and wrong, duty, and betrayal. Words shouted over revving tanks and grotesque firearms, raucous and daunting, that drill through to your mind so painfully that you pray to an empty sky to never hear again.
I don't want to live in that world anymore.
That world with clear and concrete definitions, with not-so-clear connotations. That world in which by picking up a firearm and robbing a man of his life you are somehow doing humanity a favor. That world is monstrous, blind, pointless. But with you everything has meaning, and that meaning is blatantly simple: the meaning is to exist, thoroughly and passionately, for love.