In the trenches, the sky is a staccato rhythm, a bitter tang that coats the tongue of earth. Voices, distant, the weight of the earth above us, boots shuffle past, the dance of the living that I’m apart from. Metal through flesh, the world tips sideways, and there's warmth spreading, the memory of rain. Earth cradles me, a symphony with the percussion of shelling.
The pain is there, a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my consciousness . The fabric of my uniform sticks, a mix of mud and something unnervingly softer, the stink of war. The ground beneath my fingers, a cruel joke of peace not mine to have. The world in jagged pieces, I see a sliver of grey, the cruel cold whispers promises of rest.
The heart, that drum of life, beats a stubborn rhythm in the face of the abyss. I smell gunpowder, my mind kick-starts and wanders, refusing to sleep, the call of the void, perhaps. Shards of memories pierce the present, a green field far from here, the laughter, the softness of hands. It’s hard to tell, and it doesn’t matter. It’s human, and that’s enough.
And so I cling to the touch, the voice, as the world dips and sways, as the fragments of me threaten to scatter. A man made of flesh and blood and memories fights to hold on, even as the edges blur and the cold seeps in. The human spirit woven from threads of survival, hope, fear, love.
What is it about the human spirit, the narrative we carry, the story of who we are, who we love, what we hope for, that clings so desperately to life? It's more than just biology. There's the primal urge, the evolutionary drive that insists 'survive', the fierce whisper of life urging us to hold on against the pull of the abyss.
*this is a hyperlink adventure, the links add an additional level of textuality to the piece.
