sacrilege

the clasp of the man's reach no longer fulfilled his destiny. He looked upon himself like a ragged soldier, footloose and torn apart in some trench somewhere. Only in his mind did he allow himself to feel this way. But he could feel it. The shrapnel at his throat, the bayonet in his hands, the enemy,  suffocated, in his dark, dirty shoulders. The mud made it hard to see if the man was  still breathing or not. The sacrilege of war. The bounty of desire. Something that would drive a mad man  sane would drive a sane man mad. Say that over and over again until you get a headache. That was the feeling of the soldier. A headache, he awoke from his hypnotic state. The doctor was sitting there, with aghast on his face. There was no medicine to cure this man,he thought. Only vicious psychotherapy and medication. He would have to be locked up for a century and succumb himself to books and plays and the free press. Reading was the only cure, and, the only answer to sanity. There were other methods, but this doctor was particularly cruel. Nurture vs Nature. It had to work. But what if it didn't, what if the man would fall ill again. Succumb to his madness and live an unwell life. The doctor was willing to take any chance to save this remarkable  young man. He aspired to be inspired. And, vice versa, so did the doctor.