“I know the answers you seek,” he says and, if he could, you think he might’ve tried to place a hand on your shoulder. “Some things, these old wounds of war, take time to mend, invisible fires you can’t quench until somewhere, somehow, you learn.”
“And in all your years did you even learn?”
“No,” he admits. “That doesn’t mean you won’t.”
“And what am I expected to do until then?” You ask, embarrassed you can’t curtail the desperation that rises and lives in your question. “I killed, I lost all I had. Sometimes I’m the one that made it happen. I can’t live with it.”
“You find a road to walk,” he says. “Alone, with someone, with a few even. You walk until you find it’s end, you wonder if you’ve changed and, if you haven’t, you walk another.”
“And how long do I walk?” You ask.
“Until it feels right,” he says. “This road is a difficult one. We find ourselves, or we find ourselves lacking. I don’t know what you’ll find, nothing, maybe. Or maybe you’ll find out why you want to walk.”
With a breath, you nod, you wonder and you turn. There’s no more words left to be said, no more thoughts left unthought.
All that remains is a path left unwalked.
And, so you walk.