Last of a dying breed.

I feel the need to write something and I have an idea of what it is, but it's something so deep I'm not sure I can bring it to surface but I need to so it can breathe.

Do you ever wonder why you were made the way you are? Why do certain things bring life to you and why do you turn from others? Do you ever wonder why some things just capture you and others you could care less about? For some it's just who they are and they never question. Typically that is my response but for this one idiosyncracy I cannot help but question all the time. Why, I always wonder, do I care about this?

I care about military history. Nothing can enrapture me and bring me to tears as quickly as a discussion about the World Wars. I pride myself on not being a crier and for maintaining a "stiff upper lip," concerning just about anything. My horses die and that's a fact of life, grandparents and childhood friends pass away and I rejoice in the knowledege that I'll get to see them later. My dearest friends move away and I am nothing but truly delighted for them. Yet nothing breaks my heart like old war movies, be they fiction or not, books, radio broadcasts, museums, battlefields, and monuments. Oh many people find me crazy enough for being a girl and into military history and they can mock and jeer as they please. It's who I am. There is something in my heart that stirs, a combination of mourning and pride, honor and understanding, and a deep deep knowledge of loss. All those boys. So many, so very very many, did not come home. So many were called to do things we'll never even imagine ourselves capable of doing, be it in self-defense or in selflessness. What have we ever had to do that was even remotely as challenging as so many of those soldiers faced? I know my history and I know that not every soldier faced a trial or tribulation that would be note-worthy, but they served, didn't they?

There's no explaining it properly. I'm probably going to end up contradicting myself somewhere here. I am just so filled with sorrow that we're never going to know the trust cost of sending out all those solders to fight. It is probably better that I don't know, it might burden me more. But what I do want to know is why it burdens me even now. Why do I care about what happened 60 years ago, why do I care that we'll never get to hear every single story about what happened? Why do I care? Why do I want to care? Why do I feel the need to care? None of this makes sense and I'm even more confused then when I started. Darnit.