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