today while smoking a cigarette and reading outside my tent, my eyes caught a tall afghan man walking past my peripheral. as i scanned this giant coming my way i noticed his feet were bandaged and bleeding; every step he took made me wince; the thought of bleeding steps in shabby sandals on rocks was almost to much for me to bare. the bottoms of his feet were so red and bruised that the gray sandals had followed suit, taking on the scarlet coloration. i looked at his face expecting to see some sort of suffering in his tired eyes. none. he walked with a sense of purpose, tall, and confident. the pain of each step was so hidden behind this mans leathery exterior that one could say it wasn't even there at all. this old man was made of stone.
as he walked by all i could think about was clint eastwood, syl stallone, and all the other soft individuals who are paid handsomely to portray rough men.
then it hit me: fuck john wayne, i want to be like the tall afghan man with bleeding feet.
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