I haven’t been sleeping much lately; tonight, with my stomach tied in knots, my hands screaming no matter how still I keep them, and my eyes burning, I’ve been reviewing the past.

When I was younger I was so angry, I still thought the world was supposed to be fair; I still thought that determination and sacrifice would bring rewards. I thought that if I just wanted it bad enough I could leave the past behind and create a life of value and faith.

Then, when I was a bit older, I was angry that the potential I had to be someone had not only been denied, but had been actively destroyed.

Now that I’m older still I’ve let much of the anger go; not because I’ve accepted the results so much as because I don’t have the stamina to carry the anger anymore.

It isn’t anger now as much as it is resignation.

I feel like an old peasant, bowed, shuffling; watching the next generation with wistful eyes. Not daring to watch too closely lest I taint their belief.

Sometimes I feel a spark of my own youth, when the fire hadn’t yet turned to anger; when hope brought anticipation rather than despair.

In the dim light of that tiny spark, I only see more clearly what I am now, broken pieces haphazardly placed together again. All the strength I have now is the strength of scar tissue, non-yielding; not enough of my original material exists anymore.

I feel like the last survivor of a lost world, a forgotten war.