'Strategy without tactics is the slowest route to victory. Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat.'
- ~Sun Tzu
I once knew a woman of admirable values. Her beauty so deep, it resonates from the inside out. She was beautiful down to her soul, the kind of beauty lasts forever, or so I thought.
You could spot her in a crowd of thousands, for her beauty is unique. But over time she has been swallowed by the crowd and I can barely recognize her. When I see her face now, I see a stranger clad in anger, disguised in sorrow and bitterness and I can’t make out who she is.
She looks at me with anger and regret, her gaze burning straight through me as if she intentionally wants to pierce my soul with her stare of a thousand daggers. I can’t even look in her eyes as the tinted windows of her soul bear no resemblance to the warmth I once knew as my sanctuary.
I remember when things were simple and loving each other was like air, easy in, easy out.
Now we wage a silent war as we collect our arsenal, guns at the ready. I gather my troops, an army of “I wish things were different”.
Her defenses are up, she retaliates with “FUCK YOU I HATE YOU, I WISH WE NEVER DID”
For so long I stood firm against her wrath but now I buckle at her hatred as I cower in submission for she has broken down the man I once was. I faced her in countless battles but alas no more. I do not fear her, nor what remains in her rifle of misery and despair.
I will battle no more for I did not seek a beautiful adversary, I sought to find a confidante, a woman, a real woman. A woman who is truthful and honest in her speech. A woman who shares my beliefs, a wise woman, smart, one that gives good advice. Her female intuition should be strong. She must not be ruled by emotion rather by truth.
I thought she was that woman, but instead she became my greatest foe and I bear the scars of unrequited love.
I will battle no more. I will lick my wounds and retreat. We have been counterparts for too long and she knows all my moves. Checkmate.
She used me as a muse to paint a portrait of an AWOL soldier, undeserving of honor, my love, her art of war.
This is not a battle cry, this is not a final “HOORAH” before I gather strength for 1 final round. This is not us, and this is not me.
There are no spoils of war, just the ruins and debris of my heart scattered across the floor. You have his heart and mine, and none of the pain.
Where there is no struggle, there can never be freedom. It has been a long and arduous road. Nobody said it would be easy and it hasn’t been. I’ll never forgot her, and I don’t want to. She is now no more than a lesson learned. I’m finally free.