"And only later did I see God, In the bush filled with sunset and He demanded that I return His world to Him" By Kornlejius Platelis The summer heat engulfs me like a grotesque parody of hellfire. In the distance, a field of sunflowers is in bloom, and I am in the bush myself, being bitten by every insect imaginable. In my hands is a rifle, on my head is a helmet, and I am wearing heavy body armour. I am reminded of Van Gogh's "Wheat Fields with crows", painted by Van Gogh in the final months of his life. His descent into the waves of his own mental illness were marked in that painting, the bright wheat fields, the crooked birds, the distorted sky, all elements of a tortured, disintegrating mind. As the temperatures hit 40 degrees celsius and I realize I have no water left and there is no shade either, I wonder if I have spent the last few months, if not years, in a similar kind of dissolution. My chest feels heavy, my rifle is still raised. I can hear the distant sound of men moving through the bush towards me with hostile intent. An abrupt stillness descends ostensibly from the sky bringing a familiar monotonous whine to my ears. I am in a deserted village in Bulgaria, and men with hostile intent are closing in on my position. My radio doesn't work, my heart is pounding, my skin feels like it is tearing itself apart, and suddenly, there is a rush of movement.
Of Missions and Men
Of Missions and Men
Of Missions and Men
"And only later did I see God, In the bush filled with sunset and He demanded that I return His world to Him" By Kornlejius Platelis The summer heat engulfs me like a grotesque parody of hellfire. In the distance, a field of sunflowers is in bloom, and I am in the bush myself, being bitten by every insect imaginable. In my hands is a rifle, on my head is a helmet, and I am wearing heavy body armour. I am reminded of Van Gogh's "Wheat Fields with crows", painted by Van Gogh in the final months of his life. His descent into the waves of his own mental illness were marked in that painting, the bright wheat fields, the crooked birds, the distorted sky, all elements of a tortured, disintegrating mind. As the temperatures hit 40 degrees celsius and I realize I have no water left and there is no shade either, I wonder if I have spent the last few months, if not years, in a similar kind of dissolution. My chest feels heavy, my rifle is still raised. I can hear the distant sound of men moving through the bush towards me with hostile intent. An abrupt stillness descends ostensibly from the sky bringing a familiar monotonous whine to my ears. I am in a deserted village in Bulgaria, and men with hostile intent are closing in on my position. My radio doesn't work, my heart is pounding, my skin feels like it is tearing itself apart, and suddenly, there is a rush of movement.