Deluge of Desolation | l. ackerman

On Nihlism

(chapter eighteen)

On the prospect of nihilism the world as we know it will be run to ruin. Innovation will cease, knowledge will run thin and humanity will continue to be weak, ignorant. When such chaos beckons forth, those behind the problem under the safety of their maniacal guise will reveal what has been sought for generations; the truth.

The truth being what drives us forward, to the horizon of the endless hills — laying down our lives in vain and shedding tears at the grotesque remains of our bloodless family.

We laugh, we fight, we die, training everyday relentlessly until our feet are scabbed with blisters and our bodies soiled in muck. We fight for those who sulk in nihilism, who believe our sacrifices are for naught.

Are they? Are our efforts lost in the fading memories of our predecessors, never to be brought back as our elites decay in the open fields of enemy territory? Let us say we believe not in moral principles, that we believe there is no meaning in life, in our comrades' premature deaths...then what? If that was truly the case, if our fight to a greater future has been useless, what will be said when children of the coming generations hide behind the farce of the King's beliefs? When the weak stay weak and the powerful become more powerful under a socialist— or even marxist title, at the expense of others' dignity and prosperity, what will be said then?

They would chastise us for not trying hard enough, laugh at our beaten and broken bodies that succumbed to their baseless, vile words. As if they had not forced us to stop our fight and put an end to our trying.

Blame is all they are able to do. When they fail to get the outcome they desire with no fight at all, they will blame those who do try because where else would they aim their unadulterated ire? Hateful creatures, they are. Even in the colossal footprints of their past mistakes, they will refuse to let the truth be and accept their mistakes.

Like a supply of stocks; a hundred coins turn into four hundred, then those four hundred coins pile up to become a thousand coins. Investments, reinvestments, but the money is never taken out of the bank. After so long, there is so much money under one persons' account that they refuse to sell, but in this case it's hatred, resentment, hostility. It all piles up until the looming crash off the market occurs and a deluge of depression and desolation encompasses the affected.

"Our tax money can and will be better spent! I'm over funding the deaths of so many people. What's the point if we just keep losing?" A man yelled from the crowd.

"Ungrateful, that's what they are. They don't even care that they're taking money from our hard-earned pay checks to fight a losing battle!" A woman cried out.

"Their efforts are useless. We need to spend time fortifying our defenses, not mindlessly bringing our women and children into their selfish battles. There will be a massive generation gap if we keep letting the young ones in the military!" Another man said.

Useless, they say. Ungrateful, they say. As if Erwin or anyone else in the Scouts are the ones dictating how much of their tax dollars goes to us. We barely get a cut from the government's funds. Even the Garrison gets more money, yet all they do is sit on their asses and spend their "hard-earned pay checks" on booze. Low-life scums, ignorant fools, arrogant bastards; these people plague the walls and there is nothing we can do to make them change their minds.

We are their freedom fighters and yet they can't even spare a simple "thank you" for our efforts? I suppose that term offers nothing but a knee-jerk response, a second-handed thought that aids nothing to the restoration of our race.

I'm so tired of not being recognized. I fight tooth and nail for these people to breed and pay their taxes so the government won't fall, and even as I am bleeding out in fatal doom, they fail to even offer their condolences.