The alarm blared beside me, my eyes already open and staring at the ceiling. Sleep had been light and fleeting, dreaming nonexistent--I hadn't moved in nearly seven hours. Staring at the ceiling again, listening to the streets awaken below me, I hear the noises of a people naieve to the kind of work I do; the kind of work I am forced to do. Sounds become like muffled, slow-moted gurgles which my head hears only second to clicks and grinds; I am trained to hear the unheard. I pretend to be a part of this world.
My memories are unobscured by the fogginess of misinterpretation. I see the past as clearly as I do the now. I see fallen men as if they were beside me in my own bed. I see their funerals. I see it all as a play, staged to satiate the need for answers and an end, but the end never comes.
I am an extension of a unit which lashes out violently against the violent, we fight fire with fire. My fire is artificial, created for the needs of someone I don't know, and now am numb to caring about. Perhaps I was bred. Perhaps we are all bred.
I manage to roll my eyes to the left, then my head, and I feel the future heat of the pavement rising and blowing in my window. Another day resumes, but it is no different from when I woke up yesterday, or when I will go to sleep tonight. I will resume what is called my life today. Only I don't know if I'll return to this bed tonight. I can only hope for that.
