The Battle
How can you expect me to win a battle
by giving me a blunted, tarnished sword
and thrusting me into the unknown?
How can you expect me to have the courage
when I'm in a land I've known all my life
but yet is now so inexplicably unfamiliar?
How can you expect me to know my way
down darkened alleys,
muggy streets and seldom-trodden paths?
How can you expect me to feel at ease
in ill-fitting garments
carrying a useless weapon twice the size of me?
How can you expect me to feel at ease in my own home
when behind each seemingly innocuous corner
lurks hidden danger and those with ill intent?
How can you expect me to win a battle
by telling me the enemy is infinite,
its influence immeasurable that I am surrounded; there is no hope.
So stop expecting.
Stop mindlessly instructing.
Because nothing is simple.
Because every. Little. Thing.
Every. Damn. Day.
Is a battle.
- Hear my battle cry
Rebecca .a. Huxley
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