The Bravery in out of Range - Part 10: It Never Rains in the Desert

 Living at Nelligan, sleeping on a cot, and eating in a mess tent made it feel like we would not be going home anytime soon. After all, shortly after arriving in the Middle East, we were extended from a six-month active duty order to a twelve-month commitment. 

I noticed cracks in the people around me. Personality conflicts that I thought the people I knew were above. We had been together for too long. True colors were showing, and it was not attractive. I wanted a mission. I wanted to sleep on the hood of my truck and roam the desert again with Jeff, maybe with two other trucks. To be like we were before the invasion started. 

The days at Nelligan passed. We had dug very deep trenches around our tents for drainage, and what a good thing too. An overnight storm had filled these as if we had a giant mote around each GP Medium tent. You would think the water would just go right into the ground, but it took a while.

Anytime you got stuck with your company, it was inevitable that you would eventually be ordered to burn trash and latrine waste. This was a miserable duty that lasted all day, during which you dumped a significant amount of diesel onto garbage or into the 1/3 steel drums pulled out from under the latrine seats and set them on fire. From there, it was just a smelly babysitting job. I smoked, read, and just talked with others through the long hours of this necessary task. There was a shared observation, a silver lining if you could call it that, to this job. No one messed with you when you were doing it. It provided natural exemption from mid-rank egomaniacs from irritating you, trying to make themselves feel more important. Perhaps this was from the "There but for the grace of God go I" factor. Unspoken, but there.

I lost track of the days when we received a mission. We were to go to the supply area and move 5 trailers with MREs to Kuwait.  Finally! Jeff and I loaded up our supplies like we always did, planning for more than we expected, and went to pick up our trailer.

When we got there, the load was dangerous and ridiculous. One case of MREs was a 20x12x6 inch-ish box containing 12 meals each. The load was 40 feet long, 8 feet wide, and 8 feet tall. There were thousands of these on our flatbed trailers. The trailers had the four-foot sideboards up, but the load of meals was actually eight feet or more high, with a few 2-inch-wide hand straps thrown over it every few feet. There was no way these things were going to stay where they were as we off-roaded through the desert. I thought we might deliver somewhere between 45% and 50% of what now sits on the decks of these trailers.

You cannot argue with the stupidity of military leadership reasoning; they have an unending supply, so they will win every time. You just state your case, then you prove them wrong. The only time you outright defy them is when you know that you will hurt or kill others by doing it their way. If it is a loss of financial resources, that is how they roll. We win wars, well, most of them, because our checkbook is bigger.

It felt so good to be out on the... The ..... Well, actually! It WAS a road, sort of! Since all of these trucks have been getting stuck in the desert and spent more time sitting than moving, the Army Corp of Engineers thought it was a good idea to grade roads inro the desert sand, by running a grader blade through to cut the loose top sand layer away and push it off to the side, leaving a more firm road base of harder sand to drive on.

Before they did this, being in the tracks of someone before you was a bad idea, because they had loosened the sand, and it was "sand soup" for you. Now we were driving along these hastily made roads, passing entire companies of others from many nations. The British guys were always wild and crazy. They did not fit my preconceived notion about Brits, but here they were.

Photo Credit: Release Status: Released to Public Combined Military Service Digital Photographic Files

We were right about the loads. We were dropping cases of MRE's like we were Oprah Winfrey on happy pills. The waste was disturbing and sickening. There was nothing we could do. But then there was. Coincidentally, many of the people whom we encountered on the "road" were low or out of food. We pounded through these graded tracks through the sand, hard and fast. People saw what we were carrying and would wave, jump, and shout at us, hoping we could stop and share with them. There was no need for such inefficiency, though.

One snappy, half-turn up the steering wheel, down, and then back up, would cause the trailer to rock side to side, and you could drop 10 to 12 cases of meals right at the feet of those watching us speed by. That's 120 to 144 meals delivered right at their feet. They cheered as they collected their delivery, and we felt so much better about losing part of the cargo we were carrying. We were forcing the meals there, which were jettisoned from the trailers at strategic drop points.

Where we were going was a long drive. We would not make it in one day. As the sun was setting, raindrops peppered the windshield. Hopefully, this would not last long. Sleeping in the truck is a brutal way to not sleep. We were parked in the graded "road". At dinner, we pillaged the MREs we were carrying and talked. The news from Africa offered no clues about when we would be going home. Lately, the news has been discouraging because it's so nebulous. At least before the ceasefire, there seemed to be something measurable happening.

The rain did not let up; in fact, it got much worse. Something like monsoon season assaulted us and our cargo. No sleeping on the hood tonight. I was so looking forward to that. When there was no point in saying or doing anything else, Jeff and I took our respective stations; he leaning on the steering wheel, me propped up against the door window. I was managing with sleep coming in waves, dipping into unconsciousness. It was an on-and-off excursion in and out of dreams. One moment, I was in Southwest Asia, the next, in one of my many childhood homes, or working back home. There was one consistent feeling. No rest.

The rain pounded the truck with a mighty roar all night long. I was sure the cardboard MRE cases were absorbing a good deal of it. That would make them even more unstable when we started moving again during the day. The roar of the rain on everything, the steel of the truck, the graded roadbed, and the glass made the night seem like it would last a few days. 

I was in one of my decent attempts at sleep when I noticed something. Something unrelated to the rain, sore muscles, and fatigue. My stomach was sending me an alert. I was not happy with the food choices I made the day before. I glanced at my watch in the deafening drone of the rain on the truck; 3:06 AM. Could I wait? The answer was clear: No. This was an emergency. I would need to step out of the truck in the rain, squat behind the tractor's tires under the trailer, and take care of business. 

I opened the door and climbed down the steps. As soon as I touched the ground, I knew this was much worse than I thought. Another great military decision was made to cut roads through the desert so military vehicles could move more easily. Now, the roads have become aqueducts. The water was halfway up my calves, the sky was dumping buckets on me, and I somehow had to get my pants down without letting them touch the water I was standing in.

As I performed this brutal acrobatic exercise, and my stomach hurt like I was being stabbed, rage hit me out of nowhere. "I AM THE STUPIDEST PERSON ALIVE!!! WHAT AM I DOING HERE? I signed up for this crap! I could be home! TEN FEET FROM THE BATHROOM!!! TEN FEET!!! I made this nightmare all by myself! I didn't have to do any of this."

Anger is something I channel well into strength and power. This was how I coped, and it got me through. After the ordeal, I was back in the truck and back to my lousy night's sleep.

The sun came up, and the skies cleared. Although the roads were no longer aqueducts per se, they were still a mess with washouts, deep puddles, and places to get stuck. I made coffee on the Chinese cook stove and was recounting my miserable night with Jeff. "At least you did not have to worry about Tumble Papers," Jeff said in his best Czech accent.

Tumble Papers: One of the most feared things we have encountered living in our truck in this war. As a soldier, you are self-sufficient; you carry first aid kits, ammunition, sufficient clothing, food, water, a weapon, and, of course, toilet paper. When nature calls, the standard procedure (when there is not a 3 AM monsoon in an aqueduct) is to walk all the way to just in front of the trailer's 3 axles, where the smooth sideboard boxes are. You can lean your back up against this box, hovering just above the "cat hole" that you just dug.  The problem is, the air currents in the desert are weird, and around a large tractor and trailer, they are even weirder. 

As each used piece of toilet paper is released into the hole, it does not stay there. The air currents under the trailer grab it and blow it out into the open, up into the air. It wouldn't be so bad except that, for some reason, the currents circle the back of the trailer. These white papers, with their frightening brown faces, start a relentless attack, bursting up into the sky, circling, and dropping like a bird of prey, diving for the kill, often, way too close for comfort, just before hitting the ground, shoots back into the sky and tries another run at you. After a few papers are deposited, this can look like a brutal distortion of an Alfred Hitchcock classic. Tumble Papers. I could never have imagined this horror when we were deployed last November.

We got underway to deliver these much-needed meals, but in much smaller quantities than we started with, to someone in Kuwait. Along the way, we encountered more people shouting at us for food. The dilapidated cardboard cases made it even easier to wag the trailer to drop a load of meals on the side of the road. We were very generous, and I dare say some were even dropping some to see if they could hit certain targets. 

We arrived at our destination around eleven. The commander of that unit was very surprised to see us there. "We don't want this stuff! We are leaving tomorrow!" They were relocating to another area the next day, and these trailers with MREs falling off all over the place would be a problem. We started dropping trailers, but the commander protested, telling us not to. We continued anyway because that was our mission. If he could provide direct communication from our leadership to support his position, we would follow that order.

We decided we needed the straps on the trailers, which would make moving them another foot even more difficult. One person from 1st platoon began taking straps off our trailer. Jeff got in his face and demanded an answer for this theft. Jeff had a way of making people explain their actions, and if they could not do that, it would highlight their selfish motives all by itself.

An hour passed, and the standoff continued. Jim, from our platoon, finally had an idea. He told the commander that we could not take them back because it would violate our orders. They also could not be left here because they belonged to the United States Army. So, in order for Army property not fall into unauthorized hands, there was only one answer: the trailers needed to be burned.

There was enough food to feed a city on these trailers, and setting it on fire would be such a horrific loss, but this was a real solution. The white phosphorus grenade could be set on the hood of a military truck, and that would burn so hot that it would burn through the hood, through the engine block, and down into the ground. When Saigon fell, the US Navy was pushing perfectly good helicopters into the ocean off the sides of the ships to make room for the people they took on. Waste has a mighty history in the US military.

The commander, realizing that Jim could and more importantly would do what he just suggested, reluctantly signed for the trailers of MRE's. We were free to go, now bobtail (that is, without trailers), meaning the ride back to Nelligan was the bumpiest, hardest ride ever, and if we didn't wear seatbelts, we could be beaten senseless inside the cab of our truck.

The ride was brutal. We carried everything we owned on our truck. We had duffel bags strapped to the cab's roof, and the strap ran through the inside of the truck, giving us something to hold onto during the bumps and slams. The ridge was so hard that my duffel worked its way out of the strap and flew off the truck at one point. We had to pull over and hunt for everything I had lost.

An unofficial behavior was starting. We were in the territory that the Iraqi Army had occupied for the last 6 months. It was becoming common for American soldiers to treasure hunt in the abandoned Iraqi bunkers and vehicles. This posed hazards from unstable munitions, unexploded ordnance, and booby traps. The war was over, and one could elect to find souvenirs and make it so his family might never see him again. Because of this, the military took a hard stance against treasure hunting and started a campaign called "Not One More Life". We, of course, twisted this into: "Not One More Day." Neither of these sayings appeared to have an effect.

We finally arrived back at Nelligan the next day, wanting to just be done with this mess and go home. We knew that was not going to happen. Not knowing what was in store for us was normal. It was our lives, yet our lives did not belong to us; they belonged to George HW Bush, Richard Cheney, Colin Powell, and Norman Schwartzkopf, respectively. None of these figures was obligated to tell us anything. Period.

The Fallen

 It is always important to remember that when the words sound strange and almost repetitive, oblivion waits. I have held him to the mirror, and he keeps mocking in a sing-song voice, turning his head side to side, never looking forward, and demanding that he is an authority. The crash awaits my friend. I told you to scream at the top of your lungs, and yet, you dance and drink and do nothing. You recline in the grass, looking at the sky as though it were put there to entertain you. You have never carried anything. Your charge is adequate for one to carry, but in ignorance, you cannot even lift it.

So on top of everything. At least that is what you seemed to be, but it was never true. No one defies gravity. Conceal yourself in the protection of lies, and no harm comes. Oh, my poor, naive one. I got up early one unsuspecting morning. I read the news and could not believe it. You were swept away, just like that. Nothing protected you because every lie you ever sood on crumpled like ash, mimicking the shape of the wood it once was. Calling out the words, you found that they had no substance. 

Photo by Victor Serban on Unsplash

Did you know at that moment that you never had anything? That you built upon nothing at all. Did the light shine upon the stories you told yourself and testify that all your principles were not that at all? In the places you built magnificent things for yourself, one hand wiped it away like wiping fog off of glass and built something real, something forever, something that could never be undone in its place.

 A strange command has been given, and now all of the words and titles and authority are found to mean nothing. The very thing that could have provided the ultimate protection now has an objective: to show you what you really had all along. We cannot talk faster than the wind that moves overhead. Reconciliation comes, and it measures us by our own words. If only. If only. If only. To go back in time and do it all over, this time with a genuine interest in others, respecting all you were told. But, you know that could never be. The world is millions of miles away, careening through a different part of the universe. You had your chance back there, and it is gone. You have become what you thought was impossible, what you read about when it was not you, what could never happen to you. You are the fallen.

Despite Myself

 Writing about long-ago experiences has a liberating effect on me. These bits of history seem to be bouncing around in my head every day of my life. In an odd way, they prevent me from moving forward, in ways that are insignificant but cumulative. It creates a Memory Almost Full (McCartney album reference intended) effect. Releasing the words into space relieves the keeping of the guard on memories. It also augments the story, so that it is never forgotten. It is really the best of both worlds.

I have discovered a weird side effect in all of this. Some of these stories take months to write. I started in 1984 in the mid-nineties and finished it just a couple of years ago. Pleased with this result, I started a 1985 story, only to reach May and find myself suddenly staring down the barrel of one of the no-win relationships of my life. It has not moved since.

I started Safe Haven, but its heaviness was tiring, especially because it posed as fiction while offering a dose of anonymity. It stalled at a big event and is waiting for me to resume. I honestly do not know when that will be. 

Tired of the cloak and dagger style that Safe Haven demanded, I moved into "The Bravery in out of Range." This is a real account of Desert Storm, which begins the moment I deplaned in Dharan, Saudi Arabia, in 1991. I plan on finishing this story in short order.

What I have noticed is that when I get involved in one of these chaptered stories, it can be difficult to put a one-page, single-idea piece out. I miss those. So I am writing about it because there is something about the words that clears things up like this and sorts them out.

This is me, not waiting for inspiration or coherence. I am looking to overcome those weird little roadblocks I set up for myself. I recall during basic training. We were on the 20-mile road march. First of all, there is no road. We were walking full pack in deep sand. I recall that we were in a thick part of the woods, and we were tactical. (That's 2 columns of troops, each looking forward and flank, spaced out far enough not to be taken out together, but close enough for support).

Photo by Holly Landkammer on Unsplash

I saw something that day which proved to me that our minds are far more advanced than we can imagine. OP-4 was waiting on the right, tucked back in the foliage, completely concealed. Even more so, they were in full camo so that even if you looked right at them, they would completely blend into the backdrop. Head and eyes forward, all of us stepping so quietly so as not to make noise, I saw them, but in my brain, not with my eyes. They were green, and the shape of their heads made me think of lima beans. I could feel them watching. The tension was high, and my brain drew them so that I could see them without even looking. It was like nothing I have ever experienced. Immediately, the attack was on, canisters of CS (tear) gas hit the path, and we were scattered trying to defend ourselves while also trying to don our protective masks as the air in our lungs burned and turned us inside out. You just don't forget something like that. By "something," I mean that image in my mind's eye. Every time I think about this, I am reminded that we are made more magnificently than we think. I can do anything.

So what does it take? How do I break the ranks of long storytelling, just to have the freeing feeling of writing a short piece to get through the day, the week, this winter? I just have to do it. Because here I am, doing it. Despite the roadblocks, despite myself.

The Bravery in out of Range - Part 9: Running with the Gods of War

 Morning light came. It never really seemed clear in the desert winter. We were dirty, and that was endless. I longed for the days when we were free spirits, running the roads, doing what we wanted, stopping in at Log Base Alpha for hot pressurized showers. Those days seemed like they were so long ago now.

We were all up for about 30 minutes when it was clear that something was going on at the front of the convoy. Officers and gunships rushed up there, and we watched curiously. A group of Iraqi soldiers came over the next hill and surrendered to the group. They were starving and cold. Coalition forces had cut off their supply lines back in January. They had not been replenished since before Storm began. 

The officers came back and asked for our used chemical clothing. The heavy charcoal and neoprene line camo jackets and trousers would be more than enough to warm the prisoners up. I laughed about this, putting myself in the Iraqi soldiers' position for a moment. Of course, they were thankful to be warm and to be given food and water. I wondered what they thought about the clothes.

The NBC MOPP gear jacket and trousers consisted of a heavy, camouflaged cotton/poly outer layer, with an "everything-proof" neoprene skin inside, then a fine, heavy mesh with activated charcoal powder that would get all over you and your clothes. I cannot imagine what these poor guys must have thought as they put them on: "These Americans are the weirdest people ever!" I can tell you, we were filthy from wearing those things for all of the days that we had.

Once the commotion calmed down, I made coffee. There was a sound, something big. Earthquake? Tsunami? We looked back, and it was the entire 3rd armour division sweeping through. They came through like giant iron locusts. It was spectacular and humbling and made me thankful to be on their side. Watching them come through was like watching a parade on steroids. I suddenly put it all together. This area was not cleared yet. The foxholes last night, the 50/50 guard, the prisoners this morning. We were supposed to be behind these guys, but we ended up several hours ahead of them! Surprisingly, given how many times our trucks got stuck. Someone was messing up.

Iraqi T55 tank destroyed along our route

People from the 3rd AD took our prisoners, and later that day, we were maneuvered up the next rise and then relatively back to where we were, but facing the opposite direction. I was clear we were not going anywhere that night. The leadership had coaxed some fuel for the convoy, as well as food and water, since some people were really down and out. Jeff and I were fine in all areas. I even had the luxury of a shower. Well, sort of. I had strapped a 6-gallon jug to the tractor's catwalk. I loosened the strap, loosened the cap on the jug, and tipped it, creating a small stream of clean water to wash my hair and face in, then filled a small basin, climbed up into the back of the truck with the rockets, and cleaned up. It was crude, but way better than the alternative. Some of the people I knew in this convoy were so dirty, I could almost not recognise them at first glance. These are the unsung horrors of war.

As it got later, we learned that the captured Iraqis were armed, but had no intention of using them against us; they were cold, hungry, and missed their families. In fact, the only groups of Iraqis who fought back were the elite Republican Guard. They were Iraq's version of Special Forces. Our prisoners were not that. So, the weapons they left behind, a pile of AK-47S and grenades, were still with us. The leaders decided it would be fun to fire a few rounds of enemy weapons and throw two grenades. Of course, this was a huge attraction. No one got hurt, except when Bob threw a Soviet grenade, which kicked up a rock that then broke the small vent window in truck 31, and the glass had cut Marsha's arm. It could have been worse.

When you are trained for combat in the military, it is all about math. Your job is to take measures to reduce the odds of getting killed as close to zero. If you leave a percentage in place, in all evaluations, YOU ARE DEAD. That is a fail. Had this been one of the previous wars, like Vietnam, in which we were up against the Viet Cong, doing whatever they could to get us to leave their country, things could have been very different. 

Tactics like modifying weapons to detonate on the user when fired were common. Take your enemy down by whatever means you can, no matter how dishonorable the method. War is dirty. Jeff and I were discussing the boobytrap grenades. We had heard that the Soviets had crafted a grenade that would explode the moment the spoon was released. While the AKs were inspected before they were handed out, and the grenade clearly appeared to be a nomenclature that was familiar in the required procedures of identifying enemy weaponry, in my opinion, this is still an act of stupidity and blatant vulnerability. The leaders of this convoy were wrong. DEAD WRONG. These, my friends, are the gods of war.

The sun set after the "fireworks" and we got to sleep in our normal configuration this night, Jeff in the truck and me on the hood. Life was good again. We had no idea where we were going. The nighttime airwaves were just discussing the political aspects of the ceasefire. It was all white noise, offering no itinerary for what was happening with my friends or me. 

About an hour after daybreak, the convoy began moving again. We moved out of Kuwait and again northwest into Iraq. Everything was the same, and we got by the best we could. At night, Jeff and I would break into packs of MREs and steal the peanut butter packets, the cheese packets, and the crackers. "Chiz and Peanut Butterz" (in our trademark Czech accents). It was our food of choice. We were completely over everything else at this point. We would sit in the truck and exchange music cassettes so we each had something different to listen to. I loved one of these nights when Jeff asked if I had dental floss. I did, and he proceeded to sew up his favorite, non-military work gloves that were coming apart at the seams. We were quite a self-sufficient team. There were also quiet moments. I recall Jeff writing letters to his daughter Danielle. "Damn water." He complained quietly, wiping his eyes. Yes, all you winers, my partner, Jeff, did indeed have a heart.

Daybreak would come, and after coffee, we would be on the move again. Jeff and I cleaned up because we brought provisions to keep us that way. Other people, not all, you could not get within 20 feet of without holding your breath. 

The trek through the desert was brutal all these days. There were no roads, the trucks were too heavy, and many hurdles remained to be overcome. Iraq was hillier than Saudi Arabia. We had long climbs through loose sand. The convoy leaders did their best to manage the overloaded trucks through these traps. One particular challenge came with one of the biggest hills we had seen. We sat at the bottom per instructions, waiting while the trucks in front of us made a make-or-break run up the hill. It was a long process. I made coffee while we waited for the truck in front of us to complete the challenge. I had a full canteen cup of freshly made hot coffee.

Our turn came. Jeff kept the massive load moving without breaking traction as we hit the climb, differentials locked in, pedal to the floor, demanding that Cummins give all it could. The drive axles would hop every now and then as they broke traction, trying to pull the tri-axles on the back of the trailer through the deep sand. Jeff would back off the accelerator just enough to keep our momentum. 

Just as we hit the top of the hill, Jeff did not relent. He kept his foot pressed to the floor. The top was sharp. As we crossed the peak, the ground dropped below us. It felt like we were airborne. One thing went through my mind: SAVE THE COFFEE. I thrust my right arm out the window, canteen cup in hand. The coffee seemed to rise slowly into the air, leaving the open cup for a moment. Then, as the truck slammed into the ground beneath us, the coffee dropped back into the cup, and some rained down on my hand, but I managed to save most of it. The Captain, who was standing on the ground watching as we came over the hill, I could see him shaking his head in disbelief as he watched the truck and the coffee scene.

It was the ultimate test of a fifth wheel and kingpin for sure. The truck and trailer were asked to do something they were never built for. Had this been one of the old canvas-topped M818 Tactical tractors, it would have handled all of this without any effort at all. As the 40-foot trailer crested the sharp edge of the hill, two pallets of 155 mm projectiles took off into the air and smashed on the ground. There was no subsequent explosion, for which we were thankful.

Now we had a problem. As we got to the bottom of the hill, where the ground was firmer, the realization that when the next truck crested the hill, it would directly hit the 6 155 mm rounds we had dropped at the top of the hill. We parked and ran to the top of the hill. We could barely move them; they were so heavy. But knowing the next truck was at the point of no return, the was no option, we HAD to move these. We dragged the projectiles out of the path of the convoy, where they sat for who knows how long. Nothing exploded. These 155 mm rounds consisted of an armor-piercing uranium-lined steel casing, explosive filling, primer, and shrapnel. They weigh 100 lbs each, but these were fastened to the top and bottom wood pallets with steel straps in packs of 6. It is amazing how much strength you can find when you do not have an option.

The days all ran together, and we were marking them with a Sharpie on the windshield because we would never have been able to count otherwise. It was sunny, and our giant convoy rumbled into the military settlement of Nelligan in Iraq. We supposed this would be where we dropped the ammunition that we had just carried for over nine days. As we stormed through the compound, we saw the flag and sign for our own company, the 744th. We were amazed, they had moved to Iraq from Saudi Arabia. We were home. Our 36-hour mission had taken nine days. We roamed the desert low on food, fuel, and water, too prisoners, dug foxholes in a minefield, endured the most dangerous lightning storm I have ever seen, and that includes those I have seen in Texas and Oklahoma, man! We were coaxed to take experimental drugs (Jeff and I played along but never took a single one). We existed out of time for much of that journey. It will always be a nebula in my existence in which a memory surfaces. We did not know what was next. Some of us speculated that maybe they would suddenly direct us to Baghdad. 

Wakes you with a fever at five...

 I saw it written on the streets at dusk.

It would not be so average for me.

The hope, the knowing, the awareness, all part of the package.

I knew something was coming.

It frightened me.

The incredible capacity to see so much,

Like taking subspace bursts through a telegraph wire.

They gave me transmitters, somehow knowing that, 

at the time, I only wanted two cans and a string.

They gave me short waves,

and I fell in love with amplitude.

Photo by Peter Herrmann on Unsplash

It took a long time to understand that it went way beyond wavelengths.

It picked up impulses that they say are both electrical

and chemical

Something vibrating in the early morning hours 

has a beat that my heart assigns for filing.

I never understood it for years.

It wakes you with a fever at five.

A private universe there in the frozen world

I could not describe it even if I tried.

It led me down a selfish path. 

No, not of indulgence, but of presence.

Thinking I could turn the dials on every moment to make it better for all.

But it was not about me, was it?

Things begin making sense at this point, 

The more wild things become.

The tornado rages over my head, and I cannot hear the words, 

But I am calm, I am cool, and I am down.

I just need a little bad grammar to quench my heart, 

so that my tears of sorrow and of joy are not misconstrued.

The constant noise that no one is making 

wakes you with a fever at five.

Some mukbang sister goes to shows,

She thinks she's on the menu for many days to come.

But the faceless silhouette keeps thumbing the button, and she is gone.

Define me. Go ahead. Confidence. Tenacity. Disaster.

You never see it coming.

We are still on the screen, no matter what fever dream you are walking right now.

I saw the writing in the streets.

Warnings were everywhere.

There were hours before the darkness, but somehow, a minute later, it was dark.

I did not even have time.

I could barely run, and my legs felt like lead.

I wanted to know, but always looked the other way.

I was lying on a cold steel table.

There was a prickly blanket thrown over me.

I was very afraid, because I could not comprehend.

There were no words in my language.

My mother, sensing my doom, came and told me I was safe.

But I did not feel safe.

She yelled at me to snap out of it, but I was in both places.

It is fascinating when you are on the threshold of the fourth dimension,

and at that point, you can understand it all.

I struggled to hold onto the thing that could never be forgotten.

Too big to even stop thinking for a moment.

And in the misty morning dew, 

I woke with a fever at five.

It was there that I fell from my awareness.

Like falling off a cliff in slow motion, my memory of what cannot be forgotten, 

was being taken away from me.

I was relieved because there was too much knowledge.

My brain was burning under the load. I cried because I could recall nothing.

My thoughts eradicated.

My memories of this journey are gone.

I knew I had been saved.

I knew I had lost.

I knew something happened, 

But I could never say what it was.

Wakes you with a fever at five.