I’ve sat hunched like this for far too long. The burn in my legs has become pronounced again. My arm aches from maintaining its stretched position. My mind examines this sensation, does not find it immediately helpful, and files it away for future contemplation. I sigh again, the now familiar sound passing between my lips, creating a small cloud in the air. I flex my other hand, the one lying by my side, not resting on the stone.
Yes, keep that hand ready. You will need it for future events. Do not pass into oblivion like this. Leave your mark on the world.
Quiet fool. Can you not see how he grieves?
Grief over the fallen comes later. How can one become a legend when he wallows in misery? We must secure our own identity first. I’m thinking combat. Follow in his steps, the steps of your ancestors. Their blades live in your blood, their honor in your heart, and their glory in your …
How could he follow your moronic delusions? His time could be better spent than listening to the likes of you…
The likes of me? How could any path be better than the path of the warrior. The fighter.The soldier!
My path! the one instilled by his personality, not the one by his ancestors. You and yours cannot truly appreciate the battle of the mind…
I sigh again,but this time out of exasperation. I brush my fingers again over the etchings, grooves in the stone the last marks of him…
See? Nothing but dents in the stone. With my help, you could have a memorial. No, a statue! A statue would be great! A great big statue made of…
How about a plaque? A flat piece of wood and metal to represent your mental abilities?
A plaque would be great too! That is an award right? One that fits on tombs?
Imbecile! How can you speak of tombs and graves in this time? No, he must take up the mantle of the writer. The deeds he secures with the pen over the sword will far overshadow whatever menial ideas you fantasize on….
The pencils in my right pocket seem to increase in their weight, instantly bringing my mental attention to them. They poke sharply against my leg, the ideas inside them anxious to take form.
Wooden sticks with lead? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. The blade is a far more worthy weapon that your pathetic strips of bark.
My left hand drifts down from the stone, resting on the sword secured to my hip. The marks and characters carved into its scabbard commemorating the great deeds fought by my ancestors. My fingers lightly brush over them, dancing along nicks in the wood, almost feeling the cold steel lying within.
Yes. Feel the cold. There is plenty room on the scabbard. Pass the blade onto your descendants, but make sure your great acts are forever immortalized upon it first!
Please. A book will outlast that rusty piece of iron… It wasn’t quite that rusty. I maintained it as well as the pencils, … And will certainly bring about more change than any battle ever could. Soldiers are honored in speeches, but intellectuals are heralded as the greatest in history!
I cannot silence the voices, they are an integral part of me and will speak for as long as I live, the air I breathe giving them breath to speak. I shift my weight, the sword hissing in its sheath, voicing its discontent with being moved and not drawn. I draw my pencil, open a notebook, and begin to do battle with the paper.I write with the fury of combat, even when each word fights back, when the fire in a phrase destroys the structure of the last sentence. The punctuation lays siege to the freedom of the sentence. An onslaught of connotation forces the syntax to crumble in defeat. The paper does not surrender easily, but I am the Soldier, and I press on valiantly. I emerge victorious a veteran of another war with writing. I gaze again upon the grave in front of me. This man was a Writer. He crafted memories with thought and belief. He leaves not deeds to respect, but an example to aspire for. I grunt as I push myself up into a standing position. The soldier and writer stay silent, locked in thought. I shut the notebook and scratch into the cover, An Author of the Battlefield: The Memoir of Daryl A. Colglazier. I pocket the pencil, sling the book under my arm and the sword around my waist, and step out of the graveyard, the whistling of the wind the only sound to protest my choices.