GARDEN OF RENTILLE

A hush fell over me as I entered, both one of appreciation and of ill despise. This garden stood as a sign of terrible acts coming to an end, that time washes over all things. A symbol that all fears will die one day, that balance will one day be struck. That even from flint sparks and blood splatters, some sort of good will arise. Yet they still haven't died.
The blooded has not stopped its oceanic flow, the inferno swirls and cackles still. In this stagnation of action we find ourselves moving ever faster, lives of value lost in a foolish instant. Lives like those of my companions, and those of our enemies, nothing notable outside a red smear on the cobble.
My lingering was ended as a drip of water struck the unlabeled statue ahead of me. Branches swirled around the figure, this grand soldier. Their soft leaves gently glowed under the pale stars above. With a deep breath, I reminded myself of the changeless world around me. I reminded myself of the people who have lived my life, and how their actions were as fruitless as mine. I reminded myself of unwavering, violent stillness that grabbed our nation in a choke-hold. Brow furrowed, I spat, and left the site more enraged and more passionate than I had came.