The Civil War of Myselves

To fight in war is to risk everything. 

Your body.
Your sanity.
Your conscience.
Your time on planet Earth.

All of these things can be lost in war.

Exit signs of neon do not live in battlefields.
All directions lead to struggle, to loss.

I am not a soldier.

I have little to cry about.

I can’t stop the tears.

When you walk through the field of war, every step is a decision of great consequence. To yourself. To others.

When you hold a gun, there is anxiety. For yourself. For others.

When you use the gun, there is pain. For yourself. For others.

My weapon, my words, how I use them, how I hold them.

When I hold words and when I use them, there is anxiety and pain.

Words matter, yes. But, this is not a matter of life or death. The greatest threats posed to my life consist of the words I speak to myself.  All other causes of death would most likely be ordinary, risks posed to multitudes.

I am not attuned to the rhythm of war. All directions lead to struggle and I can’t keep my cool.

I am not a soldier.

I have little to cry about.

I can’t stop the tears.

Waged for so long I’m unaware of the cause, the civil war of myselves must end. It’s hard to negotiate peace when you don’t know why you’re fighting.

I could lay down the weapons, let the words rust while sunshine pounds the earth. I could drop the past to the ground and forge a new future for the selves. The anxiety and pain keeps the weapons alive. No amount of sunshine can burn the words away.

If you take away the weapons, will there be world peace?

The question is how. Fear prevents us from letting go of the weapons. We are afraid, once we lay down our guns, our enemy will pick theirs back up, point, and shoot.

To be killed when most vulnerable. To be dead, engulfed in trust’s embrace.

That is what fear tells us will happen. But, my enemy is not unique to myself. I should allow the words to disintegrate in the dirt. Because I know what the enemy is thinking.

After all, I am the enemy and the ally all in one.

As I ponder the details of the civil war of myselves, I remember the questions I fail to ask – the nature of war on the earthly scale.

As I try to figure out internal peace, the rain of self-criticism pounds my battlefield. How dare I wonder about the inner war when war of greater consequence exists outside of myself?

The grenades of the mind go off. Words are harder to read in a mind filled with smoke. Misunderstanding breeds more war. Peace starts coughing from all of the dust and stands further away from the battlefield.

The civil war of myselves continues.