trench warfare is a condition of stalemate. it is a condition of thorough investment ("dug in"), but with little, if any gain. attempts by one side or the other to circumvent this condition often result in horrible casualties on BOTH sides: for example, the usage of chlorine gas.

we think when nothing moves that it is in a zero state, and that the cause of that state is a lack of motive force, one way or the other. but in reality, oftentimes, an immobility is a result of a NET zero gain, a situation where a powerful force for movement is negated almost precisely by a powerful inertia. hence, trench warfare.

life in the trenches is a pitiable thing. what seems like "progress" is akin to an ant digging blindly in soft earth. what is a "promise" is a gain of an inch, taken from questionable, shifting landmarks. the best thing in trench warfare is a moment of uneasy ease, when things apparently (but always only apparently) are going one's way. a shift in the wind, or something equally mysterious, could bring disaster once again.

***

other battlefields hold dramatic, miraculous victories. perhaps with a larger scope and lens, we would see that, in the big picture, these victories, too, are only apparently movements in any given direction, and that "human progress" is hardly progress in the truest sense of the word. those imbued with "faith" and "hope" are simply myopic, though pretending to be the opposite...

... yes, i am being extremely cynical right now. i question everything, including my own existence, which is tied to my purpose for existence, which i still, after so many many years, cannot find. in this moment, i am remembering voices of people who have read my work, and asked me, in all honesty, why i wrote what i did. there was, in their eyes, no worth or redeeming quality in what i said. and i took their question seriously, and asked myself, why do i try to write? what is the "message" i was trying to invest in the work, and by extension, the reader?

i have no overarching vision of the world. my vision is limited to the perspective of worms, or that of men reduced to worms, digging in the earth and cowering from bullet paths. there is no bravery here. there is no change here. i wish there were otherwise. there are half-snatched tales we tell ourselves, just to remember we were something else, or perhaps more properly, just to pretend we were something else. something about open skies, about love, about standing on the ground. something about freedom.