I have waited and the verdict was passed--to be exiled at le Château du Désespoir! Heavens help me, save me.

It is the last day of our week-long time-off, as it were, after having finished our previous—er—engagement. I have since feared that we may have to pay a price for our little vacation, because I suspect no one really wants to see the new guys happy, and I was right. It was just recently announced, by a representative of those above us, that we were to take all our belongings with us to le Chateau d'If—for we will not be expecting to be home again anytime soon. One cannot be certain if it was just a cruel ruse on their part, I certainly hope it was, but I have packed my things all the same. It is with a bit of shame though that I must admit that I am a little apprehensive, of what I cannot tell, about my imminent departure to that damnable fortress, and be imprisoned therein for an untold time, doing the devil knows what. It has been bothering me for the past few days, giving me nightmares, and disturbing my peaceful repose. Uncertainty, perhaps, is likely the culprit. No one knows what we will have to go through inside, how we will be treated, what will they feed us, or where upon this earth they will decide to throw me next!

And most importantly, I want to know, when can I come home?

I have just returned from months of absence and it is utterly depressing (not to mention infuriating) to find that I have not returned for good, that I cannot go home everyday, or every weekend at least, to enjoy the warm company of my family whom I have missed very much. As the last hours of my freedom tick by, I grow more and more anxious, disquieted, almost alarmed—so much so that I desperately claw onto anything, like a drowning cat struggling for air, that would alleviate this most unpleasant feeling. I converse with my parents (about anything even the most nonsense things), annoy my sister endlessly (our own strange way of showing affection),  play with the puppies (they have grown so big now), listen to music, watch movies, and play games on my computer as if there is no tomorrow. Perhaps... there will no longer be any tomorrows. No more days of freedom, of easy mornings and lazy afternoons, of silly hobbies and juvenile gaming, of simply having horrible amounts of free time in your hands. No, no more of that. The situation that I am in requires that I must leave it all behind—a high price to pay for someone who value these things dearly—and for what?

Adieu la liberté!

It was with tremendous relief, more than anything else, that our practical instructions, having gone on for some lonely months (all the while imprisoned in The Hole), came to a satisfactory conclusion. My other companions rejoiced and celebrated with many smiles and much picture-taking whilst I stood there silently, as I remembered, in the middle of the ground with a confounding mixture of emotions. I half-heartedly partook with some of the picture-taking (it was obligatory), finding it hard to smile with sincerity, and as the others mingled with their relatives with displays of vulgar happiness (which I was finding increasingly annoying), I morosely went back to where I kept my things and got ready to go home. The clouds were gathering upon the gloomy skies that afternoon, the hills beyond the fence looked more forlorn than ever, and as the rain began to come down (which went on incessantly throughout the night)—I gradually slid into depression.

It was to be expected, I reckon, that after graduation—my life, along with one hundred and sixteen others, would inevitably change. It was made clear to us, during the daunting speeches, devoid of any words of encouragement and useless garnishings, what our absolute purpose, our task would be. I have given it a fair amount of thought, during the time we have spent inside The Hole, what our lives is going to be like afterwards, but never was I confronted with the brutality of the truth—until then. And I feel utterly sad, and fearful, perhaps. Sadness for I feel that I will soon be leaving the person who I once was; and fear for I might not like what I will become. Would I someday stand on top of some deserted hill, in the middle of nowhere, wearily staring at the sunset, as if suddenly lost in thought, and ask myself if I still remember? Who was that person who loved coffee in the afternoon, and reading books, and listening to the rain as it patters on the roof? Who was it? And shrug, even sigh, and perhaps say that "it was a lifetime ago"—then continue trudging on into the darkness, following a line of similarly clothed beings of the same lost faces, their burdens heavy on their backs, the black metal of their rifles glinting between them.

I once thought that I could do it, convinced myself that I would not mind going through it all, even just for a few years. I once believed, like many others, that it would be an adventure—but I have grown old, it seems (my painful knees are telling me),  and too weary of adventures. Besides, have I not had enough already? More than twelve months of training have worn me down; still, I must admit, those have been the best (and worst) of times—and it has ultimately led me here. Sigh. My destination is still uncertain perhaps, but it is coming, as it undoubtedly will, just a few days more and my fate will be decided. And when it comes, I am hoping that this feeling would be gone (as I earnestly pray it would) and, perhaps finding myself more open to possibilities, accept it not with a heavy heart but with an enthusiastic disposition. For what else can I do? This is the path that I have chosen to take, and I shall walk through it, counting upon the good Lord not to let my heart stray too far nor lead me to my destruction. Besides, it cannot be at all that bad (as many others have gone through it, and walked away unscathed) and, like all things—this too shall pass.

Yes, this too shall pass.