Give Me Whiskey When I'm Thirsty

Right. And give me a headstone when I die.
I am tired. Exhausted. I had recently redefined the word exhausted to mean something entirely different. However, in this context, the word means the same is always has. Tired. I looked at myself in the mirror today for the first time in months. I use an electric razor and dont try to shave very well, so I never really see myself. I am tired. It shows.
I have scars on my face of which I am tired of seeing.
I have scars on my life of which I am tired of being.
I have veins on my hands and I am tired of them pumping.
I have scars on my soul of which I am tired of feeling.
I have scars on my heart of which I am tired of concealing.
I have a curve in my spine because I am tired of slumping.
I have scars on my body of which I am tired of hiding.
I have scars on my advice of which I am tired of providing.
I have scars in my brain and I am tired of them not healing.
I have scars in my eyes of which I am tired of revealing.
I am tired of everything. I am tired of getting the shit kicked out of me. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. I am beaten and tired. I do this to myself. It is my fault. I make bad choices. I make horrible decisions. I am too considerate. Everyone feeds off me, and I just give. I have endless energy for others. I have nothing for myself. I am tired of getting the shit kicked out of me.
Seven months left. Seven months seeing apparitions who ignore me.

Unify The Rebel

Right. I feel like an Indian. Feathers not dots. A few hundred years ago, before the white man, a young Indian on the plains of what we now call Iowa, explored westward. He climbed mountains. He got rained on. He saw animals he never knew existed. He kept walking. He hit the beach. He had no word for it. he had no idea of its existance. He stood in awe of its beauty. He listened to the waves crash against the rocks and basked in the sun. At times it was too much beauty for his heart, and he had to close his eyes or look away. Eventually, he walked back home. He told his family and friends of the beach. He ignored the journey. He tried to explain how pretty the ocean it. How it felt like he had come home. But his people had no words for it. He had no way of describing the sight or feeling of, or the ocean itself. I feel like that Indian. I will never be able to describe this. I had, and you have, no idea as to the beauty in this world. Amongst the pain, suffering, lies and hatred that make the world the miserable place that it is, there is true beauty. Beauty of which there is no description. Beauty of which I cannot express. I can only feel, look at, listen to and absorb at random times which are temporary and fleeting. This beauty makes claims of being around forever with me once the Army is over. If this is true, I will always have to close my eyes at times because nothing has ever been so perfect and beautiful that it makes me feel like my heart has a lump in its throat.