I am a commander of the new regime, one which has deemed it a grave sin to own or replicate art. The so-called artists have given themselves more influence than any one man should attain, through their own thirst for power. Unlike our leader, they have not been chosen democratically by the people, nor have they risen through the ranks, stood unfazed in the face of death. They have locked themselves in their cozy little rooms and created their pathetic works of art depicting their view of the world in which we live. They use their pens and brushes to curse us with incompetence and cowardice. Our young men die on the frontlines while they sit at their tables beside the warm fireplace and write about the difficulties faced on the frontlines. What would they know of the tunnels dug beneath our trenches? What would they know of all who stare at pictures they keep on themselves at all times, knowing they are unlikely to ever see them again? What would they know of all the men whose last wishes were to wrap their arms around the one they loved, knowing they would be shot upon leaving the trenches? Nothing. That’s what. It’s easy sitting at a desk, writing about the beauty and difficulty of life and all those who influence it. They have never lived a single day outside their studios. They shout slogans through their bedroom windows. They create anti-war posters and hand them out to those waiting to be conscripted. It is the greatest disrespect to all who have died protecting their loved ones from our bullets.
None have asked for it. If they claim to see the world differently, brighter and more vibrant than the rest of us do, they can keep it to themselves. We have never asked or wished to be suffocated by your hopeful dreams of eternal love and peace. We share plentiful burdens as it is, with no room to carry whatever else you might be haunted by. You have no right to shove your feelings down our throats looking for sympathy or reciprocity. Did you really think things would go the way you hoped? Did you really wish for my soldiers to read your anecdotes and lay down their arms? Do you not think we have the capability to think and write for ourselves? Why should I lead my men to their imminent death to allow you to write in safety? So you can convince them to abandon me, their general, and follow you and your foolish ideas? Do you think you can lead my men better than I can? What gives you that audacity? Have your words ever captivated another, convinced them in any way? You goddamn fool. Men have died while you’ve waited. Their children have been left fatherless while you’ve waited. Their wives have been made widows while you’ve waited. The worst part is you still wait for a reply that will never arrive, knowing it never will.
Put down the pen, and grab the rifle. No, cross out the last sentence. Give me the rifle, turn to look at the crowd, and get on your knees.
For fuck’s sake, you stained the manuscript.
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