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My parents reenact epic wars.
Epic Wars that began with epic conflicts of the shade of the walls. Epic Disputes on the other’s annoying patterns. Out Wright epic battles on peoples tones.
That is if epic means the total opposite of epic- that heroism and justice is abolished and pushed aside to make room for the river of tears, the sleepless nights and broken beings. But I forgot wars always produced casualties- unsuspecting beings caught in misfires. individuals hung for discrepancies that are still untold for. Children forced into ageing and maturing beyond their years and not because they wanted too. Suddenly, a war has lost all meaning. Not that it had any meaning in the first place but its the concept of fighting for your utopia that romanticises war. Justifies it if you will.
But war remains as foreign as the sunken bags beneath my eyes. Foreign as the awful taste of blood. foreign as the absence of hope.
Foreign as in not foreign at all.
What does remain unfamiliar and almost abstract? the feeling of contentment. The melody of uninterrupted thoughts. the silence.
Yes I’m afraid of war. But I’m more afraid of the silence. When the shouting ceases, the slamming of doors stops and the last piece of glass is shattered- it’s the quiet that leaves me uneasy. Because suddenly the projectiles are no longer launched at either culprit and instead furiously making its way to civilians seeking shelter.
I’m afraid of war.
But I’m more afraid of the silence that follows it.
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