Army dreamers. That’s what we are. That’s who I am. A dreamer. Always been laughed at for escaping brutal reality and diving into my books, my poems, my mind. My mind is a great thing, a great thing of great responsibility. Of vulnerability. Creativity. Fantasy. I like to dream, daydream even. I can flee into the world I paint; it’s beautiful there. So beautiful. So peaceful. Green grass with beautiful flowers, touched by the gentle breeze of wind. Birds chirping in the sky, playing together in the seemingly endless blue sky. Clouds passing by like the bullets on the battlefield. Leaves falling from the trees like my comrades and friends in the trenches. What a waste. What a waste of army dreamers. The flowers in my dreams, they’re red. Like the blood that stains my hand, all our hands.  

I try to escape it: the screams and cries, the horrible pictures of young men clutching their wounds in desperation to stay alive. Alive is what we were supposed to be. Become a rock star, a politician, a father. But those are dreams. Beautiful dreams, not reality. Just dreams. Dreams we all have, dreams we share and dreams we so desperately want to become reality. Some call it naive to want such things, but maybe...maybe it’s just our desperation. Desperation to escape our fates and live our dreams.  

A gasp next to me, then silence. Another one gone, fear in his dull eyes, so young and so brown. So innocent. Fighting for something made up by other people, richer people, better people. People who mustn’t suffer the consequences of their own ideals. People who don't see the horror they bring upon the world with their own eyes. He’s in a better place now; he can live his dream. Not my dream, only his dream. An army dreamer, he was. Just like all of us. A dreamer.