When you’re wounded an’ left on Afghanistan’s plains
An’ the women come out to cut up your remains
Jus’ roll to your rifle an’ blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
An’ the women come out to cut up your remains
Jus’ roll to your rifle an’ blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
“
| — | Rudyard Kipling, "The Young British Soldier" |
Aftermath
The monsoon has ended and the damage could have been a whole hell of a lot worse. I think I was scared more than anything. Which is weird when i think about it. I have never really been afraid of death before. I have been in car crashes and been attacked by dogs but the flood scared me far more. I am not afraid to admit that for almost as long as I can remember I have been suicidal, I have just never acted on it. Maybe it is that it could have been a death that was not on my terms. Or, maybe it proves that I won’t ever kill myself because I am such a craven coward. Or perhaps it is the method. Drowning is a very traumatic, not fast but not that slow means of dying rather than the quick painlessness of giving my Tokarev a blow job. I don’t know. Maybe a brush with death made me feel more alive. But I always remember how crappy and pointless my existence is.
There is one girl, she knows who she is, who I would keep going for. She knows that if she leaves this world I will follow her into the next immediately after.
I guess she is my strength that way.
