Write about: the warrior.
Worked the 4 to 9 closing shift at the community centre again this evening. I'll be doing that everyday this week, except for Thursday (Kat has two appointments in Penticton that day and I wouldn't have been able to get back in time to do that shift). Pretty nice to get some steady work right before baby arrives.
Going to have to set my alarm for tomorrow morning. Max has been 'sleeping in' since the time change. I might actually get to be the first one out of bed for once!
... yeah, probably not.
His skin tells a thousand tales, each scar a memory. He knows them all, remembers them all. Do not ask to hear any of them, for he will not share. It is a deeply personal history, these tattoos of war, and he intends to keep them between himself and those who inflicted them upon him.
Every aching muscle is a reminder. He cannot leave the past in the past, for it shadows each step he takes. Though, I must admit, I do not think he would if he could. The lessons born from what was guide him through what is to come.
He knows too much of battle and bloodshed, and too little of peace and harmony. Quiet is unsettling, so he does not seek it. Stillness stinks of death, so he continues forever onward. There will always be more conflict, always men and women in need of his services.
There is a type of peace in knowing one's purpose. He has this, at least. It is enough. It must be enough.
For he will never know any other peace. Even, perhaps, in death. I cannot imagine him being content in his grave.
So I intend to stay far, far away from the burial ground that will one day attempt to contain him.