War is a form of art, a violent and dangerous one. Its tool are the men and women on the front lines, looking like both a hero and invading enemy from the outside perspective. The paint, blood and limbs from the fallen.
It’s never a pretty sight to behold with one’s eyes. Some can experience traumatic moments in life if they managed to survive. However, there are those who only tell fables in order to seem like a hero.
Or because they’re probably not old enough to enlist in the army yet.
“Damn it, Samson, you’re not gonna die on me! I won’t let you, that’s an order! If you disobey an order, I won’t hesitate to call the higher-ups!”
Patrick and I decided that tonight we should go out to get some drinks. After a long week inside of the office, staring at computer monitors all day, there’s no better way to unwind than to get drunk and go on long, endless rambles.
I expected that we would both have some of the usual wife tales and stories about our shitty childhood, but I felt like I was the one who learned something new tonight.
Patrick was more than just a muscle head.
Patrick lifted his shoulder to get a better look at his tattoo. It was a simple, but highly detailed depiction of a yin-yang symbol done with one fish being the white part and another fish for the black.
“Oh, this old thing? It’s nothing special.”