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  • Writer's picture~ Vin


The war had just ended.

Puffs of smoke could be seen in the distance, our ruthless residue from firing against the enemy.

A calmness set in after battle.

Still in our armor, we began to search for the fallen.

The mountains stood serenely beneath a fresh blanket of snow.

Steam danced gracefully on the surface of the lake below.

Wading into the icy water, I followed my commander closely. Knee deep, he reached underneath its crystalline surface.

What emerged left me frozen in place.

I recognized the pallid and decapitated head to be one of our own. With eyes shut and lips sealed forever, his face merged with the whiteness around us.

I shivered. How many more of our men would we find? _________________________________________________________________________

I am hesitant to label this dream as a nightmare, although many would consider it just that.

The purity of the snow, the tranquility of the Mongolian mountainside, and an overwhelming sense of equanimity despite encountering a beheaded friend did not make this a nightmare.

It was a wake-up call.

How much longer was I willing to partake in a headless war against myself?

Negating my conscience.

Muting my heart.

My denial of self only served to make me a direct target in battle.

Suddenly unshackled from a cycle of perpetual self-sabotage, I accepted responsibility for my own beheading.

Attempting to Be ahead mistakenly led me to Be a head.

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