Leaving a mark

Other people say it better.

When you tell it, the little pauses, the time between words, create small gaps.  There’s a flood of feelings and expectations, rushing in to fill the spaces.  Until, in the end, there’s fullness to what would otherwise be a bare-boned shell.

War: just three letters.  You can say other things, but they’re lost.  The idea overpowers anything else.

I was a soldier.  It’s something you hold on to, but it’s a story told for you, with other words – from movies, books and imaginations.

What’s there, the fullness of expectations or the shell?  Is the brush changed by the paint?

When this is all done with and I’m home, I suppose I’ll take a look at things – try to get all the crap out of the bristles.

Otherwise I’ll be dry and cracked, bleeding old color.

P.S.  Internet has been trashed by workers filling sandbags.  Posts may be a little sparse for the next couple of days.

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