Warfare

Jane.
An original written by Alexandra.

La Liseuse (circa. 1877)
Robert James Gordon

To conquer warfare is to make
peace with whatever it is you are warring.
The challenge lies in correctly identifying
what the subject of the war really is. If one
is deluded into fighting a false enemy, the
war will persist.

Concoctions of pretenders, ghosts,
actors and illusions swarm me. It blurs my
vision and my senses as they present
themselves as the enemies to contest. It is
difficult to clearly see what
I am fighting, and even more so, to clearly
see if the enemy is even an enemy at all.

Each morning I am awakened by the
unforgivable sounding of the alarm, and
the vigour to fight the battle renews.
It does not matter if I am tired, because no
matter how many days I spend reckoning,
battling, reasoning, strategising or
surrendering to the ‘enemy’, the threat
I am convinced to think it poses never
wavers. There is no time to rest.

The thoughts and words that slither
throughout all the crevices of my mind
now have a mind of their own. No
rhyme or reason can influence them,
therefore I must become acquainted
with the panic. The alarm has been
ringing and screeching constantly for
years, it is now as if I cannot hear
anything else at all. The thumping in my
ears have gone mute. Even if the war
was declared over, I would not hear,
I would not know. I would have to see it
with my own eyes.

The guard is up, held by my weary arms.
As such, I cannot hug my parents,
I cannot comfort my friends. I cannot
wipe my tears, I do not have the capability
to hold anything else other than these
burdens. I am constantly unsettled, looking
behind and around me, pre-empting
any blind attacks or booby traps. I do
not look forward to see the peace that does
in fact enclose me. I am my own delusion.

Yet, despite all my efforts to commit to a
substantial defence, I am no closer to
winning the battle. I have never felt so distant
from victory. Perhaps I am fighting the
wrong war and I have got it all wrong.
When I move closer to the enemy and
its face demystifies itself from the fog
and its body shrinks in size as the shadow
that made it appear monstrous dissipates,
I see that the enemy is not an intimidating,
boisterous, frightening character. Not at
all. She is little, she is scared, she is defenceless.
She is confused, she is frightened. I can see
she does not want to fight this war just as
much as I do not.

This realisation in itself is an armistice.
Immediately, the sirens fall silent, the
room in which I lay makes shy cracks and
creaks as it adjusts to the quiet. The
whole atmosphere is softer, lighter.
No demons, phantoms, actors or
hallucinations crowd or darken the room.
Just one little girl timidly standing in the
corner. She is no enemy and I am no
enemy to her, rather, I am her fear and
she is my regret. But we will surrender to
each other, for I am not her fear, I am her
hope. She is not my regret, she is my reason.
We will bury our weapons where we will bury
our fears and regrets. They will lay side by
side each other – a memorial of what we
have overcome, a reminder to not repeat.
I will bring my daughters here in the
efforts to dissuade them of war. There is no
winning, peace was only gained when we
surrendered. A new day has arrived –
it is undeniable. I can feel the new dawn
shoot up and down my veins, as if to say,
“we can now live.” Only one battle remains,
but I have made my peace with it, therefore,
it is won.

Reverie - The Letter (1841)
Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta