Basket.

Another week done with as June dawns. One-quarter of my service term will soon be over, and for that I am glad.

What I have come to realise all these months is that, beyond a certain threshold of tiredness or pain, one just becomes robot-like. I remember route marches; after a while it was simply my feet moving one in front of the other without conscious effort, while my mind blocked out the pain. We became beings hardly sentient, trudging towards a goal without thinking, without more reason than it was something we had to do.

Parades and parade rehearsals are similar. After an hour or so of standing there, unmoving, your mind just kind of goes into standby mode and you go into a trance-like state. The commands seem to come from far away, drifting dreamily through fog, and the brain does not seem to register them. Yet the feet move, seemingly of their own accord, move to carry out the command.

Bear that in mind the next time you watch the NDP or any such parade. Behind all the pomp and pageantry are people who have (temporarily, though) lost their very soul.