Blood Sport

I remember rather vividly one November evening sometime in 1990 ( a long time ago) where I stood in front of the television watching a peculiar scene on TV. It was a scene which I had acquainted off from one of the many cartoons I’ve watched in my then young life – of blazing laser neons and spaceships, very bad guys hell bent on wreaking havoc, only to be put down by the almighty hero, who saves the day and rescues the planet (I believe Captain Planet was the first pop cult environmentalist, not Al Gore). But, it was only a few years later, where I realize that the scene which got me captivated that faithful day was in fact, real. This time, a 12 year old me stood in front of the same television set (we were pretty poor back then) watching the same scene repeat itself in surreal rapidity. For the same images which were imprinted in my young ‘clean slate’, stared back at itself six years later. It was yet another war, another flash of explosion consuming it’s natural surroundings and the countless number of lives it took along with it. Even then, I never understood the full complication of that moment.

Now, I’m 22. War, has now become a staple part of reality. I know and am taught to know that war is a consequence of man’s diverging ambitions and for one, it is just inevitable as long as men walk the face of thee earth – the globe trotters are we. Many took this realization by subscribing to a brand of cynicism called reality. I became creative, I choose idealism. But one can’t help but feel undone by the many vicissitudes that culminate from this search for an answer, for a greater meaning or purpose to this all. For it usually contains an ascension to the tumults of intellectualism, but stood at odds from those who choose the realistic alternative.

Then I remember again how it all happen 15 years ago. How grandma struggled with the new gadget which she was so fascinated over, she tried pressing the numbers she now learned would alter the scene on the screen, but to no avail. For the same daunting scene reappears, afflicting itself upon my young fragile mind and she knew it. Some years later after she died, the same scene reappeared. This time Dad had that gadget in his hands, unlike grandma, he knew it’s mechanics inside out. And unlike Grandma, he turned the volume up. ‘This is it son, war.’ You could almost hear him say that, in the most matter-of-fact manner it can be pronounced.