The cathedral stands tall in the day's gloom, its soft interior dusted with age. The warrior trudges forth. The old campaigner is tired and his shoulders are slumped. His sword is dull and his armor battered. Sitting in a pew the dust rises up to greet him. Eyes like flecks of granite, filled with sorrow, raise with pleading to the heavens, they have seen too much. The warhorse is old and beaten. This clanking engine of warfare has seen his last skirmish, a worn husk now, no closer to his goal than when he first took up the sword. The world has moved on and he sits immovable in contemplation. He sits, the last off the field, the last of the fallen as the silent ballad fills his mind. Was his cause just? Did he do the right thing? These things no longer matter as the ballad continues on, leaving him behind to sit, dusty, rusting amid his tarnished days of glory. His life is coming to an end, yet he cannot think of one worthwhile achievement. No loved ones to speak of, his battle brothers are no longer beside him to fight the good fight. What was once a boy is now a giant of blood and iron. A commander of vast armies, defender of the weak, liberator of the oppressed, avenger of the wronged. Yet he is no closer to understanding his life, even so near its end. He sits in contemplation, his memory a haze of battle, bloodshed, and stalwart resistance. His foes faces are blurred; there is no one he has not fought at one time or another. For all those he saved in his life, all the bravery, courage, and valor that has come to be synonymous with his name, he is left a shattered husk. Beaten and worn to the nub by the rigours of life. In the silence he can still hear the moaning of the wounded on the field meshed with the cheers of the victors. His entire life he's devoted to being strong and doing the right thing, no matter the consequence. But what has it left him with? Nothing. He is no more intelligent than when he was a child. He understands nothing more of the world or his place in it. Even as his heart flutters its last he knows there is still much work to do, as there always will be. The world is a giant meatgrinder, glutted upon the minds, souls, and bodies of untold billions. Still it hungers for more, for its thirst for blood shall never be quenched, nor its hunger sated. Slumping in death and defeat, his voice, which had rang out loud and clear over the insufferable din of battle was reduced to a shaking whisper, "There is no silence, no peace, no end. There is only war".
Occupation: Freelance Writer
I am a twenty three year old partially disabled man who is desperately looking for a way to earn a living without having to leave the house. I currently live with my disabled mother and step-father; partly from my inability to afford my own home, partly from my great fear of abandonment, and partly because I am required to help care for my mother.
I have loved to read since I was little, mainly as an escape from the reality that seemed to deal my family and I one blow after another. My mother became disabled nearly fifteen years ago, my brother and I following about one year later. We grew up in an old haunted house on land that was originally claimed as belonging to the Seminole tribe. My entire family encountered old cold spots, irrational feelings of anger or terror, and glimpses of a goblin-like creature running down the hall on a daily basis. Though it may seem petty or farfetched, I truly do believe that whatever entity resided in that house harmed us in some way, cursing us with poor health.
As a result of that curse, my family and I have been hard put to keep a roof over our heads, though I was grateful for the fact that my father, possibly the most oblivious man I've ever met, never once succumbed to illness and was able to provide for his wife and children... Up until he decided he was tired of caring for a sick woman and divorced her. I was beginning my first year in college by then. He drained my college funds and used them to pay for a lawyer to take my mother to court to protest against paying child support for my sickly younger brother.
Luckily I had worked my tail off in high school, despite being too ill to attend a year and a half and teaching myself algebra and trigonometry, and landed several scholarships that floated me through. I first majored in English as I wished to become a writer from a very young age. By the beginning of my second year I realized that a writer needed no accreditation, so I switched to a personal fascination of mine, psychology.
I never really understood the human mind and its thought processes, though I was good at empathizing with people and providing counseling. I thought that my major would enable me to become a therapist. I'd spent enough time one the couch and knew the routine well enough that I thought I could do the other guy's job too. I studied hard and graduated magna cum laude of a class of nearly 5,000.
Unfortunately my guidance counselors never mentioned that a Bachelor's Degree in Psychology is virtually useless. One needs a Master's at the least to be qualified to practice. Compounding insult to injury, I was the victim of an attempted carjacking while on my way to take the examinations I would need to get into graduate school. The man who attacked me died of his injuries and I never did get the opportunity to get to the testing facility. Because of this I was unable to apply for grad school or obtain any scholarships and was forced to move back home.
I've been working as a sales associate in a department store for the last year and half as my health has allowed. Though I am currently unemployed as my sales numbers were too low as a result of the failing economy and I was forced to either tender my resignation or be fired.
I've excelled as a creative writer very early on, and fantasized about being a published author since I was in middle school. It occurred to me that I might be able to make a meager living by writing articles online, as I am relatively skilled in creative and analytical writing.
The biggest problem I face when writing is my difficulty in coming up with believable dialog. This has stemmed from my inability to understand other people; for some reason their thoughts and actions are totally alien to me, though my reclusive nature has probably added to this shortcoming.
For all those who've had the strength of will or lack of apathy to read this tale of pathetic woe I thank you. Should you read any of my articles and rate them, I thank you further. Should you have any constructive criticism to offer, or simply wish to talk, it would be more than welcome.
PS. Try to guess how much of this story is true! (Maniacal Laughter)
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