What are you supposed to do with all the love you have for somebody if that person is no longer there? What happens to all that leftover love? Do you suppress it? Do you ignore it? Are you supposed to give it to someone else?
War isn’t passion and it isn’t honour. It isn’t glamorous nor is it poetic. It’s tragic in every sense of the word. Brutal and bloody, Cold and detached. And painstakingly eternal. War doesn’t stop once the battle is over. It soldiers on, in weary footsteps. Haunting you until the day you die; and maybe longer still.