Surviving Peace | BANDERA FELLA

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Guilt clings like a second skin, the weight of surviving while others didn’t, a heavy chain around the soul. Night brings no respite, only a replay of horrors in a loop, with sleep as elusive as peace.

The knowledge and sights of war crush you. Haunted by what’s seen, what’s done, and what’s lost, it’s a solitary confinement within one’s own head.

Trapped in a personal hell.

Living while comrades don't, carries a guilt that suffocates. Nightmares don't wait for sleep; they haunt your waking hours with the sounds of a war that never quiets. The constant headache, the gnawing feeling of inadequacy. Friends' voices, now silenced, echo in a mind that can't escape the past; the pain and tears in the eyes of their families, embracing you as if you were their own son; the nightmares and screams that escape control in the night;

The world seems devoid of color, flat and gray, where silence is filled with the memories of warfare—gunfire, whistles, explosions, and screams. life reduced to a series of flashbacks, each more vivid and violent than the last.

Dragging the weight of memories, you're a ghost in your own life, fighting battles long ended yet never over. Cold sweat, an uneven heartbeat; the voices of the gone haunting from a corner, their faces and silhouettes haunting crowds; The fight for normalcy is your loneliest battle, while you're stuck in the trenches of your mind.

Inside, contempt, hatred, and rage consume everything, a fire that burns from within, leaving nothing but ashes.

The bitter realization hits: my survival isn’t heroism; it’s sheer, dumb luck—a coin flip that landed in my favor while so many others lost everything. Each breath is a reminder of those who breathe no more.

Haunted, hunted by the past, moving forward feels like walking through quicksand

Surviving war is one thing; surviving peace is another. This isn’t living; it’s barely existing in the aftermath of a storm that never fully passes.