There was an age when I was measuring time with my heartbeat, living and being bresent in every single one, streching them to be as long as a lifespan. And now it always seems I don't have enough time, now I measure it in days and weeks, years for my past, months for my future. And my present, that thin line between what it was and what is not yet, is streched to last so long.
I miss the sound of the battle, the rush of fire in my veins while I shout my word looking for the best enemy. I miss the feeling of clanging metal, the smell of blood and sweat.
I'm camping by the lake tonight, sharpening my sword in front of the fire. The winter is almost over, but I'm still waiting for it. I polish my armor, listening carefully: maybe I will hear the call of the battle tonight, maybe I will satisfy my fire.
I don't have a past anymore, I can't see my future anymore. I'm just here in this everlasting present, waiting for my next call, waiting for next battle, trying to stop the war within.
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