writing adventure 39- History

     There is nothing worse, in Lance's eyes, than being a historian who has lost the meaning of it all.  He's not sure where it went, whether he misplaced it in Greek myths or medieval battlefields, but he's sure it's gone forever.  Once someone sees the light, or lack of it, there is no switch to turn on or off.
     The girl at the bar is beautiful, and she doesn't find another seat when he tells her what his profession is.  She sees something else in him, something darker, maybe, and Lance is very sure that it's the fact that he knows everything important that's ever happened and still can't find a reason why.
     "Tell me about the battles," she says, between drink number four and drink number five.  He is close to losing himself as well, and doesn't look up from his glass when he answers.
     "Battles?  Oh, battles were so important in history.  It's how history is made, really.  War moves the earth, and people love when the earth moves."  Shut up, he slurs in his own mind.  That didn't even make any sense.
     The girl giggles a bit and throws her head on his shoulder.  "Did they fight for love?" she asks.
     Lance throws her off of himself and stands, a bit wobbly but more determined than he has ever been before.  "They fought for love," he concedes.  "They fought for love, and for religion, and for honor, and for morality, and for land, and for gold, and for sons, and for daughters, and, sometimes, they fought just to fight.  But, most of all," he says, louder now, "they fought for nothing.  And then, they came home, in coffins or in drunken stupors, and their children would look on horrified at what their fathers had become.  And, after that, those same children would become the same things, and die in one way or another for the same reasons."
     It is only now that Lance realizes the woman has left and the bar is silent around him.  Most are staring at him, but a select few avert their gazes and resume their games of pool or darts.  Lance doesn't sit back down to his drink, though.  He stays standing in the dim room, standing in the spot where he finally said aloud his deepest, innermost thoughts.
     It was not as satisfying as he wished it would be.  Instead, it is hollow, and lonely.  The words tumbled out, but they did not change the past he studied.  They will not change the future he is afraid to see.
     He said the words, he fought his own soul, for nothing.  And a little piece of him died when he did, but Lance has seen it before in greater men, and he will go on with or without it.