Sometimes I tell myself that there is a day, not too long from now, where things will be quiet. Where the weariness of constant conflict has been replaced by a hard won tranquility. When the mud from these trenches will be left on my boots, and I will tramp barefooted in the long grass of green valleys under the bluest skies. A day when these deafening moments of unceasing fire linger on only as a ringing in my ear to be drowned out by the crashing of gentle waves and the soft breath of a sleeping lover.
On that day, in the quiet, I will be forced to confront who I am when the fighting stops. Adversity introduced myself to me–but who am I, in times of peace? What is a warrior without his war? Why is the mightiest foe the stranger that greets me in that space of silence?
Sometimes this part of me, the sharpest part, howls through the noise and pierces through the silk of this delicate dream I dare to sow. Because it knows well; this thing we fight–we fight forever. For there is soldiers’ blood in me, no matter how much I bleed. Though that voice cuts deep, it is the same voice that talked me down from every ledge and told me to remove the gun from my temple. The same voice that saw me through every long night when demons whispered louder than the angels screamed. The voice that tells me that the quiet comes in small victories found in daily and often quite invisible miracles; where the beautiful fragility of life shines boldly in contrast to it’s horrible cruelty. It passes, elusive and fleet footed, seen only by weathered eyes that have gazed at death and did not blink.
Sometimes I tell that voice that there is a day, not too far from here, when I know that the war will be over, and serenity will find us in the solace of solitude and I am no longer a stranger to peace. Where under a familiar roof, my aching feet will have finally laid roots and I can lay my weapons down; for I will have slain every dragon and taken back what treasures they stole from me. When the name I’ve inherited is no longer a curse, but a gifted and holy promise. A day, a most glorious day, when avarice has had it’s fill, when the wounds have finally been sewn shut, and I no longer need to listen to the voice of a solider.
Sometimes, in the quiet, I even allow myself to believe in these things. Because today, in the trenches, in the mud and the blood, under a blackened sky of gunfire, belief is all I have.
– Ian Gallows
2/28/2021