I’m currently having (In? On? Through? Silly prepositions.) my second book-out, while most of my friends are having their second-last.
Where do I begin? I’m alive, of course.
I stubbed my right index finger a couple of days ago. It swelled slightly and hurts when I bend the first joint. I wag the finger as a badge of courage, hard work and (If only the cause were as nobel as it looks; I stubbed it in a game of Captain’s Ball)
Life right now is very different from the one before. Much more than simply the obvious change in my weekdays; coming back home is a strange experience in the way that my current life as a soldier-to-be has diverged from the life I used to have. Both lives seem to be playing themselves out at the same time, and there’s a sense of detachment that forms from the surreality of returning to an unfamiliar place.
They like to say that tough times don’t last, but tragically, neither do the good ones. The greatest irony (I think I’m using the term wrongly here) is that I dread returning home. Returning home is simply (to put it lightly and totally ) a weekly revisitation of how I used to live, except… it’s different. Everything feels the same, but it feels like I’ve left a part of my soul in the past, the one that’s comfortable with everything
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