Postcards From A Fictional Patriot

They tell you

the Army is the temple of patriotism,

that soldiers are shrines of loyalty,

that blood spilled in uniform

is somehow holier than blood spilled anywhere else.

One of the greatest government-sponsored bullshit stories ever.

The truth?

The Army isn’t patriotism.

The Army is a government’s pet on a tighter leash,

trained to bite whoever the hands at the top point at —

even if the enemy changes faster than history can be rewritten.

Patriotism was supposed to be love —

love for people, for land, for freedom.

Now it’s nothing more than a loyalty program

for cabinets and parliaments

who don’t care if you live or rot,

as long as you salute at the right decibel.

A soldier doesn’t die for his country.

He dies for a flag that can’t feel,

for an anthem that doesn’t know his name,

for politicians who wouldn’t piss on his burning corpse

unless there’s a news camera rolling.

Soldiers aren't patriots.

They're state-assigned hitmen

with retirement plans and discounted liquor.

You call it bravery.

But real bravery would be fighting the system

that sends you to die

for borders drawn by dead men

snorting empire-sized lines of cocaine.

Governments don’t love their soldiers.

Governments love their coffins —

especially when wrapped in flags

and auctioned for votes per kilogram of grief.

And you?

You clap at parades,

stand solemn at anthems,

feel virtuous for thirty seconds —

before forgetting until the next body drops.

Because your loyalty expires

right after the 21-gun salute.

Patriotism isn’t killing at command.

Patriotism is asking:

why the fuck do we keep killing at all?

But asking is treason now.

So you stay silent.

March.

Salute.

Bleed.

And you call it honor.

I call it

being a gun-for-hire

conned into dying for someone else’s parade.