I keep seeing a civil war era General in my mind. He has on the blue uniform with the gold accents, he looks extremely tired and battled torn. There are blood stains on his uniform, the buttons which are usually shining gold are obfuscated with dried blood and dirt, his boots caked with the black bloody mud of battle, his magnificent sideburns and mustache all greasy and stuck to his dirty gritty sunburned face. In his eyes, a great grey emptiness, yet buzzing with energy, like looking out upon the vast ocean just before the start of a hurricane.

He has just returned from the front lines, he has much to tell me but he's too fatigued to really make real words. Quick, get this man a cot, he needs rest. The lines are holding, but enemy troops are grouping in the East and if they mount a full assault, they will break our ranks. He's so worried the battle will be lost, he doesn't want to rest, he's trying to get back up and to his horse, but his legs will no longer support his weight. He's so dedicated, this brave man, he will not give up and let the battle go ill, but his body is giving out. His will to go on is strong, but the physical inability to continue is like torture to him. You can see it on his grief stricken face.

There is a look of hopeless abandonment now in his strangely grey eyes. The things he has seen, the things he's seen himself do to others, everything is there in his gaze. A nurse is now bringing him water, but it's not water he wants, between gasps of exhaustion he gulps down the dirty river water, but manages to lift his blood soaked arm and point to his saddle bag. There, tucked away under some soiled blankets is a bottle of rye, so I grab it and hand it to him. He nods thankfully, pulls the cork with his teeth and takes a long hard pull.

Anything to quench the pain, to soak out the world of woe constantly around him, anything to silence the cannons in his mind. He lies back and stares at the sky in silence, blinking rapidly trying to hold back the tears, his breathing labored and heavy. I wonder what it is he thinks of as he watches the clouds pass by in the sky above. Is he thinking of home? Maybe his family? Do I even know this man? I certainly thought I did.

I feel and understand your pain and exhaustion, my friend. May you always avoid the multi-beast and find peace, love, and light in the arms of the universal hereafter. Rest now, my friend. You've done well, the battle has long been won, your efforts were not in vain. Be at peace.

A friend,

P.N. Neville

A Delightful Visitor -

Weird, I'm just sitting here working away as usual when suddenly I'm hit with the strong aroma of womens perfume. There isn't anyone else here. But, strangely enough I don't exactly actually smell it, it's like the memory of scent, but it fills my scent anyway. If I sniff around, I smell nothing. But if I sit and try not to smell, it comes back. Then I sniff and I smell nothing again. Kind of an odd thing to have happen out of nowhere. There is no one else here but me and the kitty and he certainly doesn't wear perfume.

Maybe it's my speed stick I put on this morning, but my cheap deodorant certainly doesn't smell like this. This was like, old lady levels. You know, like the kind that used to wear so much that when they'd get into the swimming pool you could see it actually floating off of them in the water like an oily residue. Or those that wore tons to cover up other foul body odors. It smells old, certainly not a modern scent. Strange ghostly scents. Maybe I have a visitor with me. I don't feel off though or like someone is watching me. My radar shows all clear throughout. Maybe a simple hello from an ancient ancestor or a random aethereal walker. Hello, friend!

I keep seeing a Victorian era dress in my mind. There is no one in it, it just kind of floats there like a 19th century photo in black and white, looking like a forgotten photo that has been kicking around in old boxes in attics and basements for 140 years. It seems as if there is someone wearing it as it has shape, but I can't see them. Just the dress. This house wasn't even here in that era, so I don't know.

The smell has faded, but still lingers. I can still see the dress in my minds eye. Maybe she just wants to show me her new dress. It's nice, very shapely and pretty, I wish I could see the color instead of what seems to be an ancient photograph, but hey, nice dress, lady! Im sure you'd look lovely in it, if I could see you. But from what I can see, you look great, now off to the ball with your dashing gentlemen who I'm sure has sent a carriage for you by now. You don't want to be late.

I can see half of a woman's face now, it's really close up, back off a little, it's like a zoom lense up to 3 inches from her face, she's pretty and has nice skin, very delicate and tempting, and hey, she's smiling. She has a big smile, almost creepily big, but don't go there, don't let your mind turn this into something frightening, which I have a tendency to do. Next thing I know she'll transform into a scary skeleton and start roaring at me. But no, I can feel the warmth from her skin. But I'm still up too damn close.

She's happy and warm, I want to touch her cheek, feel her skin, but she won't let me. It's like one of those Facebook chats where you can only see what the person writes and react to it, you don't get to say anything or interact, you're highly limited on what you can do. That's okay, I don't like rando's touching me either. She wants me to know that she belongs to someone else but is passing me light and love. It's bright, like looking into a bright white sun. I can almost see it with my waking eyes.

Shit, I hope I'm not dying, am I dying? Maybe. I'm probably just completely insane now. It's hard not to go insane in these heavy times with the world and whatnot.

Anyway, thanks for the Soul Email, lady. Whoever you are. Have a nice eternity.

Yours,

P.N. Neville