The petrichor of the rain following a dry spell is one of the only things that reminds me of what this place meant to me growing up. Late summer nights on the streets with friends that seemed endless, the smell of campfire smoke lingering, reminds me of when all of my aunts and uncles, cousins, would gather by the torch pit in the back of the inn. All of these vivid memories I have are euphoric, even without any meaning... they all seem so detatched from the path I took, and what my life is today. I guess It's a reminder of what could've went right.. but moreso what went wrong?
The last time I saw my dad was the summer of '17. Me and my dad were working as loggers after getting out of prison. Much of my family had disappeared. Whether they had fled, died, or handed themselves in was beyond us. The world was closing in on us faster than we could gather ourselves, and we were in the middle of the proving grounds. The foresters came looking for any able-bodied man to answer the call to arms, ... us being all loggers, we were all able bodied. My dad and I had been stuck like glue on glue my whole life, through everything. We were in prison together, we stood up for eachother, we were a unit. I will never forget that day that he told me to go while I still could. "Everything I have taught you has led up to this. Don't look back. Nothing from here-on in will ever be the same." He told me. I asked him what of him .. pretty dumb question considering I already knew. My dad had always told me about the Stag, and what it means to this country. More so, what it means to be apart of this country. To be a partisan. How the Stag is a symbol of integrity and self-sustainability, independence; to live by one's own means. It was nothing more than a symbol to most, not like the state of decay gave it any meaning anyway. Atleast, not what it originally meant. I was not apart of the "golden age" like my father was, during the Revolution. I myself have never been much for nationalism or politics either. Considering my family's involvement in the revolution, I suppose I had no choice but to walk the hard road. The partisan's road. A road I only truly knew after I parted ways from my father, the last one to fall, never to see him or my family again.
It seemed like everything we had fought for when I was young was for nothing. It almost makes me wish I was born into the ignorant, modernist society. Be like the rest of the metrosexuals and histrionics that don't give a second thought into any of the conditions of both themselves, and other citizens. Don't care about the temporariness of everything that is just and good, and just how susceptible it is to rot into the immoral. But I guess nobody could've seen what came of this. Maybe if I had not faced the adversities my family had, I wouldn't of survived to stand alone. Then again, I don't know if it did them much good either. The undermining and pestilence for our pasts, mindless politicians and lawyers with no sense of history, mistaking our actions for crimes. If I had known that these "crimes" follow bloodlines, I would've stayed in Estonia. But there was a calling, like an epiphany of a new age that I had to be apart of, whether to be a legend or a martyr. And so I walk this lonely road of the last of my kind, the partisan, waiting for the day of judgement.