And it seems there's no end

"Soldiering on" brings about a trademark march, characterized by route-step, so many utterances of left and right, soles and their homonyms worn thin. Is it any wonder that we are so weary? Appearances perhaps to the contrary, I am no exception, and some days it feels like the fatigues are wearing me instead of the other way around. Ah, but here I stand — army of one, waging war, refusing to surrender. Only you could disarm me, but peace talks never suited you, and years of conflict have left you mistrustful of this white flag whipping in the wind. Will this cold war of ours last as long as its namesake? Will you remain a POW indefinitely? Will you ever shrug off the Stockholm syndrome, the selective amnesia, and return from this hopelessly prolonged reconnaissance mission across enemy lines? This journal is the armistice station in remote space, these entries are the days spent sitting alone in a chair, waiting. Like the Colonial officer, I am patient, steadfast, and dutiful to a fault. If you decide, as did the machines, to blow the entire place up, you better at least kiss me one last time before you do. Until then, my eyes stay trained on each and every possible entryway. They say when God closes a door, He opens a window, but I suppose I will keep on waiting for someone to open the door, 'cause the window is closed.