The night of his day

Night drags for those who left, but for us ends because we get tired of standing awake, driving along in traffic with sirens and watchdog cops. For us, the days are too little, yet we complain because they feel long and unnecessary. When we stand in line, pulling out our wallets, staring at strangers who push their carts around aisles, aimlessly and yet out of necessity, we think we’ve been standing there for hours, stilled in time.
I feel like that sometimes. I don’t mind traffic too much. I like resting my arms on the wheel and staring into the rearview mirror at drivers who think they can’t be seen. One time I looked and a lady in white hair blew a bubble, a funny thing I laughed at. But time drags when I wait for a dim coffee, or in checkout grocery lines or for my mother to cook us lunch.
I imagine for soldiers it’s different. Night and day are the same. Nights drag into days and days become endless nights. I imagine they wait longer. I imagine they sleep less. They must drag themselves with time, fighting an absurd war against confused men.
No one’s bulletproof. No one’s armed against inhumane hurricanes.
I imagine he didn’t dream to one day blow up into pieces of thin air to be a called a hero.
No one’s bulletproof.
Day and night, I wonder when we’ll leave in peace, the sounds of sirens and guns and blood covered instead by silence.
I don’t write war. I never lived through one. I don’t know how it feels, and maybe I am not entitled to imagine such unimaginable crimes. But I am a person and in my head I have thoughts that need to speak. There is a need for me to begin my day and end it, just so I can start all over.

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