this soldier

A common foot soldier I am and I wield the pen. I was not always a soldier. I was once a common man, looking in from outside. Looking in onto the plain white, afraid to step in. But this battle is a free for all and so I was given my pen and asked to go forth and conquer words. Lay siege to adjectives, capture verbs and bring down paragraphs, sonnets, verses and prose.

Glory and literary acclaim, supposedly await me. Lines such as the pen is mightier than the sword are concocted to help me along. For inspiration I have a whole range of masters. From mere Knights to veritable Gods. People whose prowess with words, words are insufficient to express. Masters and mistresses of form, wit and dialogue, of satire, of drama and powerful intellect. Weavers of new worlds, builders of kingdoms, spawners of demons and dragons. As a foot soldier I look up and upon them and to their victories, legends that I strive to emulate, as I try to shape these words to my ideas.

Are the words there first or are the ideas ? I do not know. They are both at the same time. Without words, I do not know if I would have ideas and of ideas I do not know of any other kind. And yet, once the idea and the words that make it appear, I am able to discern a difference and make the idea be of other words, better words perhaps. More lucid words. Ah lucidity. Every moment on the battlefield, I strive to make my verbs and nouns and prepositions be where they are meant to be. I try to fashion vehicles for my thoughts and emotions, vehicles which will transport and deliver, without much ado to themselves. I do not often succeed.

Millions fight this war. The war remains the same, though the battle has spread to newer arenas, away from the traditional paper and away from the pen being the only weapon. A universe now exists composed of letters, words and lines uncountable, immeasurable. And in this immensity, a common foot soldier, I plod on. Oblivious to the tumult of humour, satire, poetry and prose around me, I am busy in an attempt to leave behind the only things about me that will remain. My body will perish, memories of me will fade, but my words, they will be about. That I was once. That, borrowing from Whitman, I existed, life went on, and these here were my verses.

Particularly weary, I realize that the sun has set on this days battle. So I clear a space on my desk and lay my pen down.