Call me Yamhill

Me and the girl of the past

"There was no great mystery, he decided.
In thos burned letter Marth had never mentioned the war, except to say, Jimmy, take care of your self. she wasn't involved. She Signed the letter Love, but it wasn't love, and all the fine lines and technicalities did not matter. Virginity was not longer an issue. He hated her. Yes he did. He hated her. Love, too, but it was a hard, hating kind of love.
The morning came up wet and blurry. Everything seemed part of everying else, the fog, and Martha and the deepening rain. He was a Soldier, after all."

" They would do what they had always done. The rain might add some weight, but otherwise it would be one more day layered upon all the other days.

"He was realistic about it. There was that new hardness in his stomach. He loved her but he Hated her. No more fantasies, he told himself."

"Henceforth, when he thought about her, it would be only to think that she belonged elsewhere. He would shut down the daydreams. This was not her place, it was another world, where there was no pretty poems or midterm exames, a place where men died because of carelessness and gross stupidity. His friend was right. Boom-Down, and you were dead, never partly dead. "

He Understood.
It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do

Commencing immediately, he'd tell them, they would not longer abandon equipment along the route of march. The would police up their acts. They would get their shit together and keep it together, and maintain it neatly and in good working oreder.

I remind my self that the obligation was not to be loved but to lead. he would dispense with love, it was not now a factor.

Labels: Love and Hate

posted by Yamhill @ 2:08 AM