Sometimes I feel like a lonely warrior. The ranks have pulled back and I somehow missed the memo and am still trying to fight. I'm still fighting even though the war is over, swinging at imaginary foe that for some reason, seem very real to me.

But then I come to the slow realization that the enemy is me and that I am fighting against myself, my memories, my guilt, my shame, my endless and misplaced hope that will not die. But instead of killing my hope, I choose to turn against my gut—my guiding force—and in a swift ode to seppuku, I silence it. Yet what is hope without the life-blood that drives it . . . it is an empty shell, that is no better off than it was before.

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning;
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Stevie Smith

Miscommunication is a theme that runs rampant in 20th century literature, and it is something that we in the 21st century have made an art form. In this poem, the dead man is sending signals, wildly gesturing that he needs help, but because he has "always loved larking," people misread his plea for life-saving intervention as nothing more than a jolly greeting from a man frolicking in the waves.

What is interesting though, is the last stanza: it broaches questions of intention. The man has admittedly existed "too far out all my life" even when "it was too cold always." He placed himself on the edge, a barrier of waves and distance between him and those who could help if the need arose. Is he a victim of miscommunication and circumstance, or is he the perpetrator of his own doom?