To Live is to Die

Vivamus, Moriendum Est

You never know if there will be another day. Nothing is guaranteed. Ever. Only today, only this moment and yet, still nothing could be saved if a bomb dropped this second or a man raised a gun to his head.

His uniform, once a symbol of pride and bravery, now clung to him, soaked to the skin stained with the trauma of battles fought and friends lost. As he sat down against the trench wall, a mosaic of names and dates, carved by the hands of brave men who had wanted this life no more than he had, a noticeable chill ran up his spine causing him to cross his arms for warmth. Long shadows were cast by the moon, mimicking the uncertainty of his weary eyes. These were desolate times, in desolate surroundings and he wanted nothing more than to stop shaking so he could allow his words to flow.

The soldier longed for the simplicity of life in a small village on the coast, where he could watch the dancing colours of the sky retreat to night every evening while listening to the peaceful tides of the water. He wanted to enjoy the small things in life but what is life without its trials, pain and sacrifice? With the harsh realities of war overshadowing his dreams, he could never imagine them becoming his reality, but there is an ever in never, so could it ever be true?

He pondered, his mind filled with uncertainties and what-ifs, "Why is there an 'if' in life?". Does it represent all the possibilities that could have been, had circumstances been different? It's a question that lingers in the polluted air, haunting him as he grapples with the harsh truths of conflict.

In the midst of chaos and uncertainty, the soldier finds solace in his writing. He loved Latin in school, Shakespeare's depth and Wilde's clever quotes. With each stroke of his pen, he pours his thoughts onto his page, seeking refuge, even just for a moment, from the brutality of the world outside the trench and the weight of his own conscience. A brief escape is all he needs to keep him going, to remind him of the humanity that still resides within him despite the night that swallows him whole. Tonight the moon is bright and illuminates his paper - it is his only beacon of hope as it never fails to shine despite the mass of darkness that outnumbers it.

Harmonising with distant cries, a constant dripping overhead from the tarp can be heard. Shots are fired. As if triggered by the noise, effortlessly more words spilled onto the page, a new piece battling what is and what should be, and so, he writes:

Vivamus, moriendum est

Let us live for we must die...