I’ve probably mentioned this poem before and my struggles with it. It was brought before me again today.

This was my response:

The smell of metal polish stings the nostrils as I polish each round. Bullets dulled by the oil of hands loading and unloading, counting and verifying. Fifteen rounds fill the magazine. The pistol is clean, worn down by constant scrubbing; a zero defect mentality manifest in metal. Wisdom is the carbon of firing our minds. The experiences of shooting off our mouth and learning from it. Should we learn? Should we show that humility?

No, better to scrub it away and turn in a clean weapon.

The gun, the mind, life, conflict. Should I invite this anger in? Should I let it clear me out? Do I know myself enough to protect that which should be left as an anchor in my soul?

Some carbon fills in the pores of the steel, the weapon operates more efficiently.
Clean it? Why waste the time? Entertain the idea? I will, but judge it against principle, I must.

When does open mindedness present like a warrior uncentered, struggling in a conflict without choosing a side?

Test yourself and know why you believe what you do. Hear the idea. Keep your enemies close, but HOW close? Are conflicting ideas the enemy? Why do we feel conflict in challenging our own beliefs? Why do we struggle to own a position gracefully?

My insecurity is showing.
The SgtMaj would rather see this pistol clean than hear what I think could be improved. What authority can exist peacefully while being challenged? Only the grounded, centered, initiated, patience of someone tested, who has been cleaned out and knows who to let in and who to guard against.

I use the cleaning cloth to replace each 9mm round into the magazine, unstained by finger print. The sheen of fresh oil attempts to rejuvenate the dulled slide, a mask for the wisdom of its wear.

Is new better?

Is the fresh day better served by the dutiful soldier willing to be impressed upon?
No. I assemble a restored weapon; not as servant of the ideology, but as a steward of its power. I acknowledge the hundreds of hands that have held it and consider both the external and existential fight they struggle with.
Hands tarnished with the filth of others, I have made my own, the image of power. I holster the weapon, straighten my uniform and prepare for the invaders of my consciousness.
New day, new war, new knowledge, new death. The conquest of ideas and conflict of conscience. No one likes to be challenged but those that are willing to be refined by the process will emerge stronger. Edges worn down, carbon filling in the gaps- as a weapon I am more reliable.

-Drew Out.