The archive of the forgotten

The dancing soldier

Wisdom comes with age, but foolishness does too.

The bright light of the sun blinded me as I opened my eyes with a start. Booming in my head is the voice of a headache that is stronger than God. I hear a gasp escaping my mouth as I looked down at my nails that had dug into my flesh, it would've drawn blood by any normal human. I felt a frown form without my consent. I am usually such a calm sleeper, peace has always been my companion. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe it is part of it? Is it getting worse? Alright Stas, what date is it? I don't look at the calendar before saying out loud, but still rather softly: "it is the 18th of April, 180065." Close your eyes again, calm yourself down, this is unlike you. Determined I opened my eyes, checking my pulse, counting the beats of the machine that was my heart, check. I recall the English test I needed to learn two hundred years ago. I still remember it, check. I sigh and with a healthy dread I step out of the somewhat comfortable bed and start to make it, as meticulously as I can, every wrinkle needs to be gone, otherwise I will not be satisfied. I do not know if it is an army habit or a scramble for control. Control....stop it Stas! You know you do it because they tell you to do it!
I hummed an old song to myself while I was making the bed, I doubt anyone would know it if I sang it today. But it is still as beautiful as the first time my mother sang it. It's like I am singing myself a lullaby to calm myself down. I scoff, what a strange thing to think. I frown, sometimes I think I have forgotten how to think, as if all the years of the army paralysed me. It is quite fascinating, you do not really have to think here. I can never figure out if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

A warm breeze sprints through my tent, taking my honey-golden hair with it. I taste the wind and I am surprised when the air doesn't have the sweetness it usually has around here. The blooming opium poppies are the cause of this heavenly delight. This beautiful distraction. the poppies grow rather well thanks to the war, many soldiers love and admire them (And some boys use it for more than admiring them.) But today you don't smell the pretty air of numbness, there is no sweet scent of the blooming red flower today, or any flower at all. I can only smell iron and as I take a breath from it, tasting the metal flowing through my lungs, I wonder whether it is really the shine grey metal or if it there was a battle not far from here tonight and the wind is simply carrying its bloody perfume, its memories, its reminders, its omen.

The rough fabric from the tight beige shirt is rather hard when you put it on, it scratches your skin and it pushes your chest down. As if breathing has been prohibited now that we are loyal soldiers, and to be honest, if my officer would tell me to stop breathing, I would.
I grab my muscle cuirass, the carved sun shines mightily on the armour as the sun shines on it. The polished gold reflects my face in an almost heavenly light. I run my fingers over the bumpy art on the breastplate, I know the art all too well, with every bump I am reminded about one of the ritualistic scars on my chest. The cuirass mimics my physique and body perfectly, almost too perfectly, it's as if they have my future corpse, because I will never have one. It amplifies the feeling of being a machine, when you are covered in the bright copper they use for technology too. My body is simply my job, it is my weapon and my machine. The pumping of the heart is like the steam flowing through an engine. Is my walking a choice or an automated code set into my being? Fighting has been all there is to my life for the last two hundred year now. My body is a view of excellence, a perfectly designed soldier, brought up to be. I know what I am, I am a soldier, I am their hero. There is nothing left for me in this world but that, the poppies are merciful with their odour send to forget. But today they are rejecting their duty. They wouldn't be loyal soldiers....

I tie my long hair into a bun and look into the mirror. Familiar eyes, green as a dark depressed forest, long eyelashes, golden and gleaming in the sun. Softly touch your familiar face, a face that has not changed in two hundred years and still, it does not feel like the same man. I chuckle as I stare into his disconnected eyes, of course I have changed, it has been two hundred years, not changing would be extremely jarring, not to mention rather inhumane. You need to follow the world as it sprints right by you. I smile and look at myself; pretending to be proud of my reflection, proud of my country, my religion and my destiny.