Sometimes I forget why I signed up for the armed forces. It's like, damn, this isn't my front porch, this is another country. These trees don't grow back home. This aint my song they're playing, this radio don't play songs. This gun don't shoot dasies or pinecones. This grime won't be washed off for days at a time.
It's funny how I don't confuse birds for airplanes anymore. Or stars for satellites. It's a strange strange world we live in, but it's oddly the same from the one in the history books. Six strings of comfort hold my hands steady, and I play a tune in my head while I caress the trigger.
"...and no matter what I do, this chariot will bring me back to you...."
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