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Okay. Breathe, breathe, breathe. I am standing on the shore facing a tidal wave.

Or, even better, I am a rubberband that is stretched much too tautly. Little plinks pull me down and I vibrate, but eventually I am just going to snap and strike out in futility.

The past three years have been a practice run. A drill. Simulated combat under controlled circumstances.

This is not a drill. This is the war.

This is the year of the tiger? I heard that weird things happen during that. I'm looking for full moons and swinging tides to explain the chaos, because shouldering it and not asking questions is not enough any more. I'd rather find an external source, some smoldering mysticism to blame. Until then I have to content myself with placating internalized falsehoods and picking my cuticles.

This is war, right? We fight. We fight. We fight.

We arm ourselves, kick and scream at the wicked things, and hope for the best.