Terror is that thing that we feel inside of us that someone or something can inflict on us, insofar as it has the capacity to inflict bodily injury on us, this comes to affect us even before the injury, this is terror at its roots, it is an old stimuli , from an even older position. It dates back to the creation of the human body, and is real even if it is not of the visible world. (ie invisible)-it’s all the same: fear, whether perceived as spiritual, can be even more terrifying, because it is not earthly, for the most part without an object; it was, if not invented, discovered, at some point during our pre-existence to accompany us throughout our existence, not on purpose, I suppose, not by accident, I’m sure, but slowly by awakening the senses because it was available and usable. and there, by its first discoverer (no longer in his world, and hidden condition). Someone produced this, and for eternity after, it became something we know within our sanity, in our brains, as harmful, how else could it be there? It had to be injected. Oh, especially as a child; even a newborn bird feels this thing called terror, when the nest is shaken, the senses are awakened to face the affection that is born.
Let me give you a real example of warfare, one I had in Vietnam: when at an ammunition depot in South Vietnam in 1971 the enemy found the correct position just beyond the jungle divide and the road into the area. depot where the ammunition is located. where, he meets this isolated and lonely place, like a spider to a fly, the ground is a plateau, and ammunition boxes are stacked all over the dump, and in the reception area, it is a dusty, rutted area , and an almost straight path from the South China Sea, to the tipping point at the drop area itself, which is another straight path to the ammunition shack, with the tons and tons of ammunition behind the shack is, of course one concern, should they get hit, the whole dump goes up, and god only knows what would happen then. Here wild weeds and lizards call home; the flies seem to have found the luxury of a home too, the ammunition shack, while ammunition scattered over a four acre area, and for part of the night, we are bombarded by rockets, but none hit the spot exact necessary. to set off a chain reaction of explosions inside our ammunition depot.
Not knowing when and where exactly the enemy is, everyone (about forty of us soldiers) We hesitate to ask the knotted and lonely figures beside us, around us, if tonight is the night, is the terror that builds within us, then morning comes and we ask: is this the morning when we are going to be paste? by rockets again, because they hit us during the night, terror spreads, though the morning is calm so far; but knowing our dump was spared, but not the Air Force dump, it caught fire, three miles away we could see the mushroom clouds it made. Is this the morning when it all happens again and our landfill is wiped out, and the short day everyone has sooner or later? Is this my short day, but do we all take it personally?
Now we can hear the footsteps crumbling on the sand, and the once silent door, to the ammunition shack, the revolving door opening and closing and we look every time it does, and the sloping wooden steps, we can hear the screeching. the wood absorbing the soldier’s boots when going from one step to the other, we can hear the chatter inside the hut, why and for what?
The abnormal profusion of fear, of potential bodily harm, surging from the night before, and its rhythms have not yet left our minds, the inner pores of our bodies, it has all penetrated our neurological systems, which have their own alert arrangements. , which could be doubled this morning; this thin bright line between the winds of safety and the terror of the snakebitten, its darkness circling around us.
What are we all listening to? Why do we hear every sound from all sides of us? Hastily our ears hear even things that don’t exist, why? Because we all know that rockets make a hiss when it arrives. There is no sound that is so calming now; on closer look, most of the soldiers want to get out of there who endured the night, we all feel like broken church steeples. We know one person died and another went into shock when a rock fell within a foot of him and didn’t go off. The scent of noxious terror is all around us, seeping through the ammunition depot, decaying within our souls.
They don’t laugh at the strange forest of terror, because we are in a war zone, any reason to avoid this locality is out of the question, so for some of us, we will get saturated with this witch’s blood. This is the war in her heart. The reason the war was created was for this purpose, to create terror, or at least a reason. Some of the soldiers here have followed that path of retreat, and it has become so common among them, that the terror becomes an addiction of its own within them. It becomes a well-defined physical stimulus: one of debauchery, depravity, one that reproduces the other at a higher level, to form depression, to engender nameless violence and perversity.
No one, not even those who know the facts about terror, can say exactly what triggers what, and who, some soldiers have holy hearts, minds made of wild profanity that crackles and rumbles, and they are on Satan’s side, and they don’t care. for they will be denied the taste of blood, especially after having acquired it; there is a certain group, about three percent of humanity, who can kill without blinking an eye and then go home and watch a sermon on television. This forms a puzzle for psychologists. They give off no odor, and their minds can only be heard faintly and at certain times, from certain points at the bottom of great canyons.
NÂș: 621 (5-9-2010)