When the hurley-burely's done

When all is said and done, when the last gun is fire, the last shell exploded, the last scream faded into the night... was the war worth it?

Most people walk around in a daze, sublimely average and only moderately alive: socioeconomic cattle, in a sense, there to support the population. They're content, in a way, and (mostly) living how they choose to live. No one can fault them.

But some people can't be like that. They are fully aware, and in being aware have to live to the fullest extent they can. Sometimes that means chaos; sometimes it means beauty. Sometimes it means great intellect. Sometimes it's all three.

But always, it means war. Making a choice means taking responsibility, throwing away the quiet, careful safety of mediocrity. It means taking a stand for something, which means taking a stand against something. It means war: war against attrition, war against stagnation, war against self.

Pure chaos, and there is no continuity. Pure order, and there is no change. Life exists on the edge between both, the perpetual collapse of order into chaos, and chaos into order, over and over again in a cycle. And always, at the front of that collapse, is the point of decision: the choices we make, the wars we fight.

We can't always choose right. Sometimes, there isn't a right and we're merely choosing between two different kinds of wrong. But the choice has to be made, the war has to be fought, because that's who we are. We are the drivers, the makers, the fighters, the choosers.

We make the best choice we can and hope that, in the end, we can make it the right one. It's how we know we're alive.

... I took the job. Now comes the hard part: making it the right choice.