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.