It almost always never occurs to anyone that they'd become a veteran of war at the unripe age of eighteen. We were so young and enticed by the biological weaponry of love and attraction, clamoring our way onto the battlefield without ever completely understanding what it was worth. We charged right into it without doubt, constantly deeming advancement greater than stagnation, as action became the ultimate moral imperative. Little then did we know that it took more than a desire, or a battle cry to sustain something as hefty as our hearts, and prevent ourselves from losing it in the first place.
But wars aren't always won. Often, we are led to become all too vulnerable and in effect, we forget that we must defend ourselves, just as much as we offend. As a matter of fact, the defense line is almost always frowned and chided upon, for their lack of mobility, for their absence of risk. Nevertheless, risks aren't evaluated adequately, and as a result, poor judgment is placed upon those who wait, who observe, who stay put. And yet, their possession of such patience finally becomes their reward.
So here we are - the rest of us, with the remnants of our injuries painted on our backs, with our scars exhibited like an unexpected inking on our once whole bodies, with the tides washing away the ruins of a temporal structure in abject slowness of pace. Yet, this is the evidence of having lived. And if anything has been acquired through the lost of our sanctity, it is wisdom.
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