His mental state resembled a defeated army,
Standing on an empty battlefield…
After losing every soldier, every weapon.
Only him… standing alone in thick dust,
The sky above—black,
And smoke still poisoning the air.
Inside him: pure ruins…
Old emotional fortresses crumbled,
Walls of trust shattered,
Flags of love tattered—fluttering above wreckage.
He was like a general who lost the war of his life.
Not just defeated—
But dragged, wounded, abandoned.
There was no hope for “truce” anymore.
No dream of gathering strength again.
No map to a clear future.
Everything had become destruction…
Silent devastation screaming inside him.
He woke up every day as if rising from under rubble,
Lifting debris off his chest just to breathe.
But still… no breath felt full.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
There was a void… heavy… suffocating.
Every step in life
Felt like a soldier walking through a minefield—
Every moment could explode and shatter him more.
He knew he wasn’t safe,
Not even inside his own mind.
Memories were ticking bombs,
Fear was barbed wire around his heart,
And any attempt to laugh or feel joy—
Felt like sharper stabs than enemy bullets.
He couldn’t see people as people anymore—
Just faded reflections.
The whole world turned into a haunted warzone,
People moving like dead soldiers,
No real life in their eyes,
No gentle touch to heal his wounds.
Inside, he felt like nothing but the “remains of a battle.”
Not a human…
Just a trace… an open wound…
A rusted rifle tossed in the mud.
And whenever he tried to raise his head to the sky,
He saw it filled with black warplanes,
Circling, chasing—
Seeing him as a threat they must eliminate.
Yet amidst it all,
The weakest thing in him…
Was that he still hoped—despite all the destruction—
That someone, someday,
Would see him not as an enemy,
Not as weak…
But as a human being who fought… and lost.
