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.