Ruck March. (my Attempt To Be Poetic.)

[AntiHero]

I pick one foot up and set the other down. I repeat.

I feel pain in my back and shoulders.

I think not of the past or the future. There is no present.

Music silences my inner monologue. I barely think. I have become an empty vessel.

Infrequent breezes futilely try to cool me from the ruthless morning sun.

My muscles have hardened into rocks as the load on my back cuts into me.

The music stops.

I say nothing, I think nothing.

The world is nothing but blackness with white and yellow lines, and the occasional

red triangular glyph.

I am one step closer to Ataraxia.