The Right Bullets Are Hard To Find
The fog melted away. Windows no longer borded up from the inside or the sun struggling to break through the fog. The sun came suddenly like a café customer and the shadows danced and played weakly in the street as the overhead trees shimmered in the first breeze of the new day and the dazzling morning sky looked superb like a well-clothed Queen. The early morning dew was refreshing and fabulous for Atreus, it sent him a little boost of joy like recharging his batteries. He looked up and down the street that looked like a labyrinth. Moments later, Atreus felt in himself a growing thirst to relax in the café in front of him. It wasn't a big or fancy one. It was a popular café whereby a number of customers dispersed throughout the corners in green scattered wooden chairs like right and left parties. Most of them were smoking hubble-bubble and drinking tea. The eldery people were engaging themselves in games of backgammon and cards. Among them there was a middle-aged waiter carrying a brassed-tray full of tea kettles and cups of black coffee. There was an atmosphere of slouching and popular chaos. The hustle of talking was mixed with hubble-bubble guggles and songs emitted from an old radio near the dishwasher. Next the dishwasher there was a white cashier full of revolution slogans and pictures of african activists. From the lyrics and type of melody it was a middle-eastern music which played usually at nights. For that cafe time doesn't matter... a night or a day, the clock keeps moving. Atreus hissed through his teeth then he ordered a cup of coffee, paid the cashier and went to a distant table near a large window. He took a moment looking around for someone he might recognise but the atmosphere was grey due to the collected smoke. After a while there was a husky old man with a bald-head and a long white beard. He was like the international production, massiveness in production and inequality in distribution, he was carrying a newspaper and walking slowly towards an empty chair next to the Atreus. From the way he opened the newspaper Atreus could understand that this old man hadn’t open a book in his life. With a condescending voice Atreus said: "a dying old man is a burning library.“
The old man wrinkled his forehead and replied : I am a retired soldier.
Atreus picked up his cup and looked at him: perhaps you could tell me of your experience during the war. What went on, what you saw.
The old man replied: I Have only the small pension that the government paid for my son who had been killed in the war of vietnam. Neither I or he became like thomas sankara or jomo kenyatta or kwame Nkrumah, because we have participated in wars against humanity for the purpose of political goals. In this age whenever I saw a military uniform I only perceive a vulgar announcement linked by a person shouting: I am a murdering sadist. I am a predator. I am a vandal. I am the maker of orphans and homeless widows. I am a cheap manipulated insect and a world-wide harmful flea. I am the murderer who walks slowly above society carrying a blood uniform and slogans and tools of war in his hand. I am the killer who is prepared by all communities and boasted by every commander. I am the god of nonsense. I am the maker of victories which is defeats to humans. I am always a defeat-maker even when I gain. I am agony and death and obscenity. The old man was at a momentary loss for words then he brushed his long white moustache triumphantly, as if he had won a battle. Then he continued fully warmed up to his subject. Myriad of villages and farms were burned, towns plundered, women and children murdered, robbed and captured. There seemed to be no end to it and nothing could stop the soldiers. The only person they would obey was their commander and if he won their affection, they followed him with blind devotion and dedication like a hypnotized mass of people. They fought for him and for the fulfiliment of his immoral aims. We used to rode around burning, killing and tormenting the defenceless citizens like wild jungle beasts. It is unethical to serve a dictator and be obedient. It is the choice to take the path of good or evil and be like Francisco franco or like crazy horse and sitting bull and the great geronimo who fought for freedom and pride with every tooth and nail and every brick and stone. As far as an old man can tell, the ugliest and rudest type of pride and tyranny is the pride and tyranny of the omnipotents who raise from sand to become low-priced crowns on top of all souls, and to look with malice, anger, sadism, panic, threat, contempt and scorn to the sand they rose from and to turn into the harshest executioners and punishers to the sand which was their pride and due to it they stood up. How ugly the sand in the feelings and sensations of those who had been created from it then rose above it. The war in all its forms and circumstances is only an explanation of nature’s triumph against human beings and peace is the opposite explanation of human being’s The war in all its forms and circumstances is only an explanation of nature’s triumph against human beings and peace is the opposite explanation of human being’s triumph against nature. War is an ugly alternative to the victory of life. The worst thing that a nation may do is to relinquish and abandon a big part of it uncaring about its talents and visions and send them to wars and massacres. Then impose on that part to be the ally of ignorance and torment and vicious harmful perceptions that is made by the monotonous vacuum and a more used hand to grasping a a killing tool rather than writing with a delicate quill pen and a vast imagination. The war took us all stranger, the brave and the coward and the normal one like me. It wasn’t killing or dying that took magnanimity and bravery. It was the livings who took all forms of real bravery; living in hard times and harsh conditions while keeping the spirit strong above all obstacles that hinders our progress. That’s why the future is created by pen, work, mind and logic and not by war, retirement, illusion and bullets. The right bullets are not easy and the flintlock isn't always steady and right...
A moment later he took another sip of coffee, glanced indifferentlly around, then smiled genially as if they were old friends. He stood up and moved away from the table and get lost in the smoke. Atreus moved far away with the music and unclear smoke images that looked like fairy creatures.
The old man wrinkled his forehead and replied : I am a retired soldier.
Atreus picked up his cup and looked at him: perhaps you could tell me of your experience during the war. What went on, what you saw.
The old man replied: I Have only the small pension that the government paid for my son who had been killed in the war of vietnam. Neither I or he became like thomas sankara or jomo kenyatta or kwame Nkrumah, because we have participated in wars against humanity for the purpose of political goals. In this age whenever I saw a military uniform I only perceive a vulgar announcement linked by a person shouting: I am a murdering sadist. I am a predator. I am a vandal. I am the maker of orphans and homeless widows. I am a cheap manipulated insect and a world-wide harmful flea. I am the murderer who walks slowly above society carrying a blood uniform and slogans and tools of war in his hand. I am the killer who is prepared by all communities and boasted by every commander. I am the god of nonsense. I am the maker of victories which is defeats to humans. I am always a defeat-maker even when I gain. I am agony and death and obscenity. The old man was at a momentary loss for words then he brushed his long white moustache triumphantly, as if he had won a battle. Then he continued fully warmed up to his subject. Myriad of villages and farms were burned, towns plundered, women and children murdered, robbed and captured. There seemed to be no end to it and nothing could stop the soldiers. The only person they would obey was their commander and if he won their affection, they followed him with blind devotion and dedication like a hypnotized mass of people. They fought for him and for the fulfiliment of his immoral aims. We used to rode around burning, killing and tormenting the defenceless citizens like wild jungle beasts. It is unethical to serve a dictator and be obedient. It is the choice to take the path of good or evil and be like Francisco franco or like crazy horse and sitting bull and the great geronimo who fought for freedom and pride with every tooth and nail and every brick and stone. As far as an old man can tell, the ugliest and rudest type of pride and tyranny is the pride and tyranny of the omnipotents who raise from sand to become low-priced crowns on top of all souls, and to look with malice, anger, sadism, panic, threat, contempt and scorn to the sand they rose from and to turn into the harshest executioners and punishers to the sand which was their pride and due to it they stood up. How ugly the sand in the feelings and sensations of those who had been created from it then rose above it. The war in all its forms and circumstances is only an explanation of nature’s triumph against human beings and peace is the opposite explanation of human being’s The war in all its forms and circumstances is only an explanation of nature’s triumph against human beings and peace is the opposite explanation of human being’s triumph against nature. War is an ugly alternative to the victory of life. The worst thing that a nation may do is to relinquish and abandon a big part of it uncaring about its talents and visions and send them to wars and massacres. Then impose on that part to be the ally of ignorance and torment and vicious harmful perceptions that is made by the monotonous vacuum and a more used hand to grasping a a killing tool rather than writing with a delicate quill pen and a vast imagination. The war took us all stranger, the brave and the coward and the normal one like me. It wasn’t killing or dying that took magnanimity and bravery. It was the livings who took all forms of real bravery; living in hard times and harsh conditions while keeping the spirit strong above all obstacles that hinders our progress. That’s why the future is created by pen, work, mind and logic and not by war, retirement, illusion and bullets. The right bullets are not easy and the flintlock isn't always steady and right...
A moment later he took another sip of coffee, glanced indifferentlly around, then smiled genially as if they were old friends. He stood up and moved away from the table and get lost in the smoke. Atreus moved far away with the music and unclear smoke images that looked like fairy creatures.
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