1 Laws and Order Pt.1

All exchanges are equal, all actions met with an equivalent return, all things quantifiable, and convertible.

What can be seen as the infinite and constant interaction of indistinguishable phenomena known as cause and effect on a grand and universal scale, can be focused down to a singular and finite interaction.

"To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a Heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And Eternity in an Hour."

-William Blake, English Poet

...And as we look within our grain of sand and wildflowers, the eternity we sense changes with the hand of the hour. Yet, the hour is always an hour, and the grain remains a grain. As the flower wilts, does so the heavens?

No, what we know is not for us to know, it simply is. Just as 1 plus 1 is 2, and the earth is beneath us, what has been proven time and time again remains our only truth. The objective reality of the world, even then however; exists without the need to be proven. As it is what is easily proven- that which is always ever apparent- that may very well exist regardless of any observer or influence.

Objective reality is one that simply is. The blank slate of the universe in all its unknown laws and mechanics is simply there, with no plan or apparent purpose.

To fully understand the universe objectively would be to know every interaction of every singular and every possible grouping, of every joule of energy and particle of matter in every frame of time to have ever occurred. To attempt such a thing would likely be a fruitless and impossible errand.

So perhaps a more intuitive approach would be more palatable.

Hidden within the subjective eyes of a sentient being is the intuitive calculator, a belief, if you will, that there is a certain fairness in some exchanges. Even if all or none of any exchange could be said to be fair, every sentient creature will state their differing belief on the conception of equality and fairness with a wildly different interpretation for every individual case placed in front of them.

And therein lies the difficulty of measuring what can truly be called objective without measuring every interaction of the seemingly infinite universe, it leaves doubt...

...that is until [Conversion] was discovered.

...

It happened on the battlefield, in the temples during meditation, in the houses of desperate men, in the pleas of quivering imaginations.

November 19th. // 1942- Operation Uranus: Offensive Against the Third Rumanian Army.

A father of 3, an honest man, a Loving Husband, a Russian volunteer, and a respected Officer in the Red Army, shivering cold bit resolutely still man, stood ready alongside his men. Gun in hand he inspected their faces as the wind chill turned them redder even then. He saw the rage and weariness in them, as they marched to what could be their finest hour, and thus he called them to bear their strength and shed their weakness for the people of Stalingrad- to refocus for the blind charge ahead.

Since late August they had seen the horror of war firsthand, some of these faces were newer than others, but even then, they'd all seen what the bombs had done to the city. First, it was the Volga river, from the bridges to the boats, then the shelters and homes, they didn't stop until the city was half a memory. Then every able-bodied man was sent to the front, weapon or not; the women "enlisted" to dig trenches. Ultimately, wise and thoughtful Stalin kept the civilians in the city to inspire the men to fight harder. And even then they yet prepared for winter as they always did.

The last month had been hell, but it was time to take the offensive.

The plan: to surround the german front by cutting through the Third Rumanian Army. One of the 2 offensive movements in the closing iron grip encircling either side of the German main force. Our man lie at the front of the west offensive, a pawn for the liberation, a single finger of many to ring the life of predators prowling in their motherland.

At 7:20 AM on the Northwestern half of the pincer maneuver, a certain officer charged forward in the frontlines. The sound of gunfire and war cries would have been deafening, perhaps even heroic, if not for the sudden mortar volley that drowned it all out. The Rumanian Army had begun a bombardment that lasted 8 long minutes; thousands of guns and hundreds of mortars turned the momentum of the offensive charge into the funnel of a meat grinder.

Awoken to the shakes and pressure of a thousand drums of war. The vibrations of the earth's fits of anguish resonating through his back. This finger lay half lucid, resting calmly on these freshly made coals of hell. It was then he thought back to his wife, the thought of simply being able to holding her one more time, memories of their days under a clearer sky, like the one he could now see above through the smoke and ash, peaceful and serene. Ironically as he bled out and felt the consistent tremor of the earth, he felt so still and calm, all he had left now was the infinite expanse of his mind to wander...

...And that he did. Within his mind, he dreamed the form and features of his street and house from the void. The smoke, and shrapnel of war coalesced into a warm mahogany orange and freshly painted blue abode. Winter snow fell as the bitter air swept through like the bitterness of chocolate against the warm and sweet figure beckoning him from the cold. His wife's right hand, mittened, formed a cup around her mouth as she called out to him from the warmly lit doorway of his home, but all he could hear was the howling wind. And just as soon as he moved to step forward, the shells landed and time froze. His house returned to shrapnel, his wife a mere meter from a falling bomb, a smile still upon her face. She beckoned him not knowing she was already as good as dead.

But, he reached out, his only thought:

"Please not her...

...me...

...I'll go."

And in an instant, he stood in the doorway where his wife once stood, he saw her, and their children, all of his men both current and now lost, his friends, parents, and grandparents, his mentors and peers, all of them standing in an arrow shaped crowd with her at the point. There she was, where he was a moment before. All of them looked to him with respect and thanks, except she alone began to cry.

"Please don't cry, my love. You are safe now, all of you...

...are safe now."

...

At 7:20 AM on the Northwestern half of the pincer, a certain officer vanished as though the very matter of his being suddenly realized it was air, and just as suddenly a volley of mortar fire landed on the Third Rumanian Army.

For every gun that had shot upon the Red Army before, another rang out from them in its stead. For every mortar that would have landed upon his comrades another from his allies landed upon the enemy in its place.

In the history books, there is no mention of the Third Rumanian army's 8-minute bombardment of the Red Army. Instead, on this day, it is written that it was the Red Army that hounded the Third Rumanian Army with its 8-minute bombardment.

Though there are accounts of distortion in the records surrounding this event, as there are conflicting reports of an officer having lead and vanishing among the ranks at the time. From suspisions of his desertion or his death during the offensive to him never having enlisted in the army, or having been a clerical error; most of these records and testimony were of little matter during or after the war. More troublingly however, and most puzzling of all, records of having ordered mortar and gunfire volleys on the Rumanian forces were not uniform among the higher ranks, nor was having had the equipment to begin with. And, truly worrying, the commanding officer of the assault distinctly remembered having been bombarded first, then suddenly finding himself instead ordering the bombardment. This didn't stop him from taking credit for a well-executed plan, however.

There was also a missing property in the city, this wasn't special as many houses vanished in the wake of the bombing runs. But for anyone but her, this specific empty lot, was unlike any other. To another it would have been difficult to tell apart from the pile of refuse in its vicinity, that englufed and suffocated this city, all except for one woman that knew it was different. Though she didn't know why when she returned to where her home once stood- after leaving the bomb shelter with her children- that despite her home being gone just like the rest, she felt it was more than that. It was as though it never existed. She could recall no memory of its interior, like it had been stolen from her mind and even her hearts recognition. It was for her as though, that even as she stood in this eerily empty square among an ocean of debris, and knew this was where she should have been this entire time, she could only desperately try to conjure a memory of it. She suddenly remembered someone was supposed to be there, which was only more upsetting.

"...Who was he?"

"He?"

As her heart began to worry, and her chest began to tighten, her eyes beginning to water. A sudden calm washes through her.

"d o n.... cr y..... lo v e" words hidden in the howling of the brief passing breeze. Somehow it was warm.

As frustrating as it all was, she suddenly didn't feel the need to cry.

Instead, as peculiar as it seemed, in this bitter winter evening- with the frigid winds constant and intermittent reminder to find shelter- she instead stood there, under this dark but clear blue sky. No memories came to her, but one gentle fading reminder as warm as the sun. it penetrated her skin down into her soul. It felt like one last hug from a loved one off to war.

It was the bittersweet warmth of a last goodbye.