Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer War isn’t glorious. It’s not noble. It’s a curse
War is not glory. It never was. It’s just a brutal, ugly thing. A thing that chews up men and spits them out like used cigarette butts. You’ll hear the stories, you’ll hear the bravado, but it’s all lies — the glory, the honor, the flag-waving speeches. The battlefield doesn’t care about that. It doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, if you’ve got a title or just a number. The ground doesn’t recognize your good intentions or your feigned pride. It only recognizes blood and bone.
I’ve listened to the stories of brave men and women, told in quiet voices in dark bars, holding back tears because they’ve seen too much to talk about it openly. I’ve sat with soldiers in Seattle, their eyes hollow from the things they’d seen — eyes that saw too much to ever be at peace again. They’ve come back, sure. But the war didn’t come back with them. It stayed, like a cancer in their minds and their hearts. You can come home, but war’s always there, with you in every quiet moment, with you in every crowded room where you just can’t hear the noise anymore because all you can hear is the silence of the dead.
And then you hear people speak of leadership, of those who send men to fight, to die, for causes they will never truly understand. There’s no courage in that. No true bravery. A leader’s place isn’t behind a desk, behind a curtain of safety while others march to their death. A leader’s place is at the front, where the blood is real, where the mud is thick and cold. A leader steps into the fire, and if he’s lucky enough to come out, he carries the weight of every single one of those who didn’t. That’s the price. That’s the burden.
Sending young men to die for a cause you won’t fight for yourself? That’s cowardice. You’ll never understand the cost of that, not until you’re standing in the trenches, feeling the weight of a rifle in your hands, and knowing full well you may never make it out alive. The ones who make the rules, who sign the papers, have never felt that. Never had to. They fight their wars with paperwork and speeches, not with their lives. They click here don’t have the stomach to face the true cost of their decisions.
It’s simple, though. It’s cheaper, too, to say “No.” To lay down the rifle, to say, “This is not my fight.” Because war, real war, is a weight that takes everything from you. It leaves nothing but dust and broken dreams. But simplicity is lost on those who have spent their whole lives building empires out of lies. They can’t bear the truth, the simple truth, that their empire’s foundation is made of men who died for nothing.
So, here’s the rifle. Take it. Feel the weight. Let the cold steel burn your palms. You want to know what it’s like to send men to their deaths? Then take it. Walk the path of those who truly bleed for their country. Let the blood soak into your hands. Maybe then, you’ll understand what it means when you’re the one who causes the end.
You want to fight? Fine. You go first. Stand there in the check here mud with the rifle, the real rifle, and let’s see how you feel when the fight gets real. Let’s see how your pride feels when you’re staring down the barrel of your own fear, watching boys fall check here for your war. Go ahead. Pull the trigger. See if it’s still worth it.
Because when it’s all over, and you’re standing alone, the blood still on your hands, you’ll know. You’ll know what I’ve been saying all along.
War isn’t glorious. It’s not noble. It’s a curse, a godforsaken thing. And the only men who should fight it are those who can’t escape it — those who can’t turn their backs because they don’t know any other way to live.
Love From Gods Earth Angel Roy Dawson