September 7th 19xxMy name, my age, and title; tout ensemble of this is of little importance. But like a shot I want to tell you my novel; a story not just of me, exactly also those of many each(prenominal) of whom have been conveniently silenced thought death. We often bewilder our lives for granted especially when were young. We think were going to live forever. But, from unrivaled moment to the next, nobody knows what will happen. A person could be alive and well one moment and dead the next, so why then do young men and women from all around the world willing take up harness during war? As I think this I muzzle at myself, not because I find it comical but because I was one of those. Those foolish young men blind by the fancies, the promises and glorification of war.
At the age of 18 I had thought littlely joined the war against terrorism and as a Singhalese it was the notwithstanding side I had at the time. tierce years had passed and I had done mediocre jobs, mostly exponent work as I had been ill fit to be out on the so called ?battlefield?. I judge battlefield now but all that changed the moment I was appointed as a major in the ranks.
My intent which had been on an old neglected book on a shelf had been opened again and rewritten with the many atrocities around me, only this time in the blood of both my people and that of Tamils. My life, which had constantly been inconvenienceted in black and white, now k wise the raw pain and intensity of that crimson blood as is covered the new pages of my life. The battlefield as I once called it was nothing less than the slaughter house I had...
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