Kick and scream all you want. No one will hear you. Get back to work.

If you're still a regular reader of my log, you'll have noticed the ever decreasing frequency of my entries. I feel the need to comment on this, for I feel my passion for writing is waning; what's worse is that I don't seem to care all that much. Perhaps I've finally had it with this thing called "life", although I hardly consider myself to be alive, given the painfully bland routine existence I lead. This penal colony that is our conformist society, after many years, has broken down this old soul.

There was a time when I would read a news story and proceed to spew forth a lengthy diatribe on the subject matter at hand, but no more. I'm sick to death of the news, of television in general, yet I can't seem to pull anyone away from it. I find myself alone with it, as it is my only companion during these lonely evenings - it's also fantastic for lulling my active brain to sleep.

Ah, sleep: the primary purveyor of joy in my life, vanquisher of my physical ailments, my job, my worry. I want to smash my alarm clock each morning for reminding me of yet another day at the salt mines. I'm tempted to call in sick most days, but what for? No one would understand; they're too busy worrying about their kingdoms. Besides, what else would I do with my time? I can't sleep my life away, can I? Though I almost wish I could, for I see little incentive to remain awake, although who is to say any of us are "awake"?

My mind is active with a million and one thoughts swirling within it at any given moment. I have a million things to say, but I don't know how to say them. I want to scream a million things at once, but somehow, I feel I can do no such thing, for I am afraid no one will understand, or, worse, no one will listen, so I keep my fool mouth shut. I wish I felt inspired to write more, but I'm afraid I'm too busy wasting away at the shit pump.

I do not intend this to be a plea for pity. I need none. It does neither of us any good. I don't know what I want out of this. Any passion I have for life is fading. Any beauty in this world is far beyond my grasp, if not destroyed altogether. I feel imprisoned by my existence, contemplating the choice between waiting for my parole or plotting my escape. I would rather view life differently, but I'm unsure if, at this point, it's possible.

To those who never made it home...

Two days ago, the Ninth of April, marked ninety years from the day the Canadian forces succeeded where Britain and France had previously failed when they spearheaded the offensive that resulted in the seizure of Vimy Ridge from German control, a crowning achievement among the travails of the Great War. On this day, we on the north side of the border were asked to demonstrate how proud we were of our men who fought and how grateful we were for the sacrifices they made in the name of "freedom". Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know the drill.

Lying in bed that evening, after bearing witness to the usual war dogma trumpeted by our media personnel and elected officials, I couldn't help but wonder how this battle might have looked through the eyes of one of its participants. I pictured myself as a young man in 1917, once excited in anticipation of performing his duty for King and Empire, now living among the rats and the mud in a trench, wearing the same outfit since Lord only knows when. I'm wondering when this will all end, when I will finally get to return home to my mother and father, my friends, and my special lady.

Up until now, I've seen more combat than I care to imagine and been surrounded by death and despair. I have watched comrades killed and I have killed. Upon my arrival, I am told the men on the other side of the firing line, the men in the other uniforms, the Germans, are to be hated, feared, killed, for no reason other than their not being on our side of the mess. They are young men like me who, like me, probably have loved ones waiting for them when they get to go home, but it is my job to ensure they do not get that chance, for it is their job to deny me the same opportunity. I do not necessarily wish to kill anyone, but if it's a matter of my survival, I must do what I have to do to see my loved ones again.

Today is to be the most intense we have known, as we are to retake Vimy Ridge. I am crouched low, waiting for my turn to charge at the enemy. I am watching the first waves of my comrades leaping to their feet and running headstrong into a rainstorm of bullets and mortar. I hear screaming and wailing and gunfire. I see medics rushing back and forth with stretchers to fetch the dead and dying from the battlefield and wonder if this is the day I make my exit - of course, this thought is not new; one tends to conceive his own demise on a regular basis out here. On one of these stretchers lies a good friend of mine, bullets lodged in his chest and leg, breathing his dying breaths. This catches my eye as I prepare for my turn at the enemy.

We are given the signal, and off we go, bayoneted rifles in tow, dashing towards our opposition with full force, weaving our way through the barbed wire and the shower of bullets. I witness another good friend of mine being cut down; it appears he has been hit in the abdomen. I want so badly to be able to help him, but I cannot, as my stopping may very well get me killed. The medics will have to handle him, I say to myself, for I have to press onward. I have no time to lament the loss of anyone; I have seen numerous young men like myself die, but I am still alive and wish to remain that way.

I am mere yards from the enemy line when I am cut down; I have been hit in the stomach and left thigh. I fall to the ground, but do not feel the pain. I lay flat on my belly and fire the rounds from my rifle at will, aiming towards my adversaries, not knowing if I've hit anyone. Slowly, but surely, the pain registers. I look down and see my ragged uniform soaked in blood. I wonder if this is to be where I die, in "no man's land", caught between two rows of weapons firing at one another. It is too dangerous for the medics to fetch me, so I lie, and I wait.

I am shivering now. I feel weak. The screaming and hollering and firing around me has become muffled, and everything around me has begun to grow dark. So this is it. I will not return home to enjoy any more of my mother's hot meals, nor will I converse with my father by the fire, nor sleep another night in my warm bed. Worst of all, I will not return home to the love of my wife, the woman I had intended to marry. My life with her, our children, our grandchildren, they are not to be. I am to die face-down on this cold ground, shrouded by a blanket of hatred and fear.

I cannot harbour a sense of pride seeing how many of us have died and continue to die in wars we do not start. I cannot rally around the calls of heads of state knowing they are not the ones who fight these wars they start. As far as I'm concerned, there are no victories in war, only losses. So easily, we detach ourselves from one another because our so-called "leaders" teach us to hate and fear each other, that death to this "other" will preserve life for us. War is not something to make us feel proud, but rather to humble us, to install the desire to never see such horror again. I suppose, though, in a world in which guns are made and sold and a select few reap the rewards, war will always be the answer.

To the victims of the first World War and all other wars preceding and following it, I have nothing to say but this: I'm sorry.

What's so happy about Easter?

Those who know me personally will know I was raised a Greek Orthodox Christian, and this time of year was always a time of tradition and family and holiness. In Greek, we say Christos Anesti, meaning "Christ has risen", customary in acknowledging Christ's resurrection. Over the years, I strayed from the religious dogma, which, ironically, has brought me closer to Jesus Christ than ever before. After stepping outside the dogmatic sphere, I see how perfunctory Christos Anesti has become; it is the message of Christ that was to live forever in our hearts and minds, a message wholly ignored by most, if not all of us, for we are distracted by the image of some supernatural being rising from the dead and ascending to some mythical place in the sky.

I wish to share with you some of the traditions associated with Easter, so that I may highlight the absurdity of our practicing them. First, it is customary for us to fast during the Holy Week - I learned later in life that we are supposed to be doing so for forty days, similar to Lent - thus we were always taught to abstain from eating meat and dairy during this time. I was never actually told why we were to do this, except, perhaps, that God would punish me for my disobedience. I don't know how many people are aware of fasting as a means to learn restraint, that when we fast, we learn to do without, and thus learn to appreciate the common plight of most of our brothers and sisters who are forced to do without, as they live with very little. If we can swear off meat for a week, or forty days, why not gasoline, or television, or promiscuity, or shopping? How absurd to practice a benign custom for a given period of time, then resume consuming ourselves silly; such is life within the confines of the Empire.

Next, we reenact the events of the crucifixion, probably because we're a group of sadistic fucks. It's not enough that the ravaged body of Jesus Christ was nailed to a wooden cross for everyone to see as an example of what happens to those who dare challenge the established social order; we have to relive this gruesome chain of events year after year in effigy. What's worse, we worship the image of his agonizing death! We kneel before the instrument used in his murder! Who are we to renounce violence when we deify it through the crucifixion? Is this why weapons drive our global economy?

Finally, we rejoice on Easter Sunday because Christ has ascended directly to Heaven where he will live for all eternity, because he is the son of God, placed on this Earth to meet a horrible end so that we may live in sin. It is customary for us Greeks to celebrate the occasion by roasting a whole lamb over an open flame. Once upon a time, we sacrificed the lamb ourselves; nowadays, they can be found hanging in butcher shop windows en masse, further detaching us from the lives we destroy to satisfy our insatiable consumptive needs. Every year, we have more than enough food to make ourselves fat and happy, feeling blessed to have been born on the side of the conqueror. One year, I suggested we feed the leftovers to those who might appreciate a little food in their bellies, those who struggle to find a single meal in a week, let alone three in a day - you can imagine the reaction I received after posing this idea. Did Jesus not tell those of us in luxury to help those in need? Is it not absurd to celebrate the message of Jesus Christ by shoveling heaps of food in our mouths, then laying to waste whatever is left?

Lost in all the fanfare is the message of love and compassion Jesus Christ tried to convey before his untimely demise at the hands of the authorities, a fate similar to that suffered by the likes of John Lennon, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X and Mahatma Gandhi. The Holy Week of Easter has become nothing more than a perfunctory exercise shrouded in images of chocolate and eggs and fluffy bunnies and a dead man on a cross, another holiday on the calendar highlighting more and more to consume. If it is true that Jesus Christ is to return, I wonder if people ponder what he - or she, for all we know - would have to say about our war economy, or our domestic violence, or our ill will towards one another, or how the rest of the world suffers so that we may live in luxury, or how we voluntarily enslave ourselves to afford said luxury.

This time, when we decree "Christ has risen", can we think about what we're saying? If Jesus Christ has, in fact, risen, why are we constantly throwing him back into his grave?