Tuesday, November 20, 2007


this won't make sense to my constant reader. to answers.com, you know what i'm talking about.

i didn't know this was my last trip, on this broken, rugged excuse for a road, in the back of the rumbling truck. not the rumbling truck, but a rumbling truck, one of hundreds i've used in the tens of (semi-successful) border crosses i've performed before. i sure wished it was my last trip, not without guilt, but without regrets. except one: packing more food. it was cold, i hadn't eaten for two days (unless one had the audacity of counting a dried semilunar crumb of bread and gulp of milk food, in which case the beginning of my fast was lunch of yesterday), and i had at least two more days to go before i got to safety. six days to travel four kilometers. i sat here in my misery, watching a piece of halva discarded in the truck's bed with a mixture of disgust and gluttony. i wondered if it were any more sapid than the bread i had yesterday. the only warmth i had was in the crate of contraband i was sitting on. the epitome of smuggler praxis: we cared more about the stuff than ourselves. at least i wasn't doing it for money, for i believe the cargo is mantic and will deliver us from injustice. well its application will, at least, because, you know, having almost been killed a few times and watching your family killed in front of you adds a certain measure of cynicism and pragmatism which can only be appreciated by those who truly have nothing to lose. or maybe that's my lick and a promise excuse for not taking part more directly in our war, but in the zeitgeist, any resistance is better than no resistance. what serendipity it would be to the enemy that a random shell should kill this divine warrior, and rid them of his evil, and what serendipity it would be to him, to bring him ataraxia. in the meantime, this warrior is eying the halva again, wondering how long halva would keep in this cold.

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