I can't remember the last time I felt this way about transiting from one place and transported to another, in my humble little life. It's a week to ORD, and inside me springs this hardly dubious feeling of freedom that money can't buy. I know I make NS sound like a jailhouse and everything else like a desirable haven.
I hate to reflect but I happen to, because the end is in sight. Kind of have to jot down such milestones so they preserve a certain sense of closure like how the pages of a book are gently, softly flipped to its last.
I bet people don't know but we get abrasions at the nipples and armpits for marching too long, or apply vaseline to our groins to prevent soreness. When we dig shellscrapes, we get cuts from tiny rocks in muddy soil and we fall off bicycles and get wounds all over our ambitions of being triathletes and physically on our bodies as well. WE CALL THEM BATTLE SCARS. For scars are for men, and tears are for the ladies.
What am I rattling about, this ridiculous outpouring of random musings.
I GENUINELY miss the gaining of internal strength from slugging it out in OCS, the gaining of self-knowledge from falling off cliffs of isolation, the gaining of desires to break free from Army's monotony to springboard into the multi-faceted real world. I hated and loved Army in extremes pretty unknown to the human race, and in ways inexplicable to my mind, if it still remains human at all.
2 years fleet by and like a moth bouncing off the surfaces of garden leaves, I've touched and went on and on. Brandon, you deserve a pat on the shoulders as you make your glorious exit. To all my comrades, falling out soon.
And the world is the limit, my friend.
I hate to reflect but I happen to, because the end is in sight. Kind of have to jot down such milestones so they preserve a certain sense of closure like how the pages of a book are gently, softly flipped to its last.
I bet people don't know but we get abrasions at the nipples and armpits for marching too long, or apply vaseline to our groins to prevent soreness. When we dig shellscrapes, we get cuts from tiny rocks in muddy soil and we fall off bicycles and get wounds all over our ambitions of being triathletes and physically on our bodies as well. WE CALL THEM BATTLE SCARS. For scars are for men, and tears are for the ladies.
What am I rattling about, this ridiculous outpouring of random musings.
I GENUINELY miss the gaining of internal strength from slugging it out in OCS, the gaining of self-knowledge from falling off cliffs of isolation, the gaining of desires to break free from Army's monotony to springboard into the multi-faceted real world. I hated and loved Army in extremes pretty unknown to the human race, and in ways inexplicable to my mind, if it still remains human at all.
2 years fleet by and like a moth bouncing off the surfaces of garden leaves, I've touched and went on and on. Brandon, you deserve a pat on the shoulders as you make your glorious exit. To all my comrades, falling out soon.
And the world is the limit, my friend.