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Don't make this about you. It isn't. Get up, and fight.
My story was born beneath blankets of cold whispers. Sweet little lullabies, lies in disguise. Some put me to sleep, others jolted me awake in the front cabin of a trainwreck.
I guided the trains inside a maze, far away from the tracks. But still, every night, they find a way back to the stations that birthed them, doors locked and me stuck inside. God knows I want to pull the brakes. There are none.
On crowded days, I feel like a city. A city doing shots of wartime adrenaline and letting out sublethal fumes of misery. I am a ghostly chain of streets on the outskirts that has waged a war with the town.
I tell myself I'm never alone, that I am surrounded by people, brothers in arms with parts of their bodies blown apart and faces grotesquely distorted.
Whatever this hell brings, we're prepared for it.
Tonight's really quiet, almost suspicious. One echo of a gunshot and it feels like home again.
I assemble my guns and get going.
Reasoning has been my old friend. On the way he tells me it's okay, it was just one sound. Maybe the shot was fired ages ago, it's just the echo that feels like today. Maybe let it go.
Click. We step on a landmine and it goes off. My old friend blows up in my face.
Through the years I've become quite agile. A force to be reckoned with, an eagle always looking for a headshot. Hence, many of my comrades complain about the headaches from the bullets.
I take out our pictures from over the years to show them how the fracture holes have always been there. At times I can't find them in my pockets. So I go looking for a mirror.
They say soldiers who shoot strangers in strange lands, come home and keep seeing snipers in their lovers' balconies.
They say little children who grow up in broken castles, go on and drive their heads through walls of their mended homes.
They say trauma doesn't need a name. My cities, my trains and my comrades do.
So I give them mine, until they find their own.
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