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It's chilling, this darkened trench. It's freezing, with sub-zero temperatures that could rival the continent of Antarctica itself. It has covered me and my fellow brethren in an inescapable frost. This war has become a monotonous routine in which I want no part in.
Blood coats this land in splashes, streaks and puddles of scarlet red and decayed corpses of deformed caricatures cover it to truly show the horrendous conditions that we soldiers face. The weather has become grey and bland with constant harsh rain - it seems as if the weather seems to know my innermost emotions and therefore sympathizes with me to a certain extent by showering this land with sky ridden tears.
Now I've forgotten what I'm supposed to fight for, it seems the others have the same idea. My brethren and I constantly fight for a war that seems to have no end.
Was it the glory? The loyalty of the soldiers for our country? The proud title of being called "brave, glorious heroes"?
What is the point or purpose of these wishes that we seek if all that returns to Korea are broken promises to come back home unharmed, sorrowful tears and grief from loved ones and friends as they hear that their people {sons, brothers, husbands, uncles, cousins etc} have died in a seemingly worthless war and all that remains of them are just sullied, grotesque carcasses that the rats and maggots have invited into their gluttonous mouths and stomachs; broken men {of both mental and physical aspects} that have to go back to men of either proud grins and warm welcomes and praises or men of harshly fragile masculinity who'll sneer at us and will call us cowards for our new psychological disease called "shell-shock" as the doctors call it?
My body aches and groans with an unfathomable fatigue and my hands shake with an immensely vulgar tremor, my eyes have seen enough blood and death to make the most cold-hearted and apathetic of people tremble with a slight feeling of fear and disgust, various ways to present these topics in such terrible forms, like artworks in a galleria, placed and thrown and structured in a way in which only the wise or commonly blase of people can tastefully criticise about to a certain humanizing degree.
