2014. Ukraine. The buildings suffocating with ash, etched shadows of people, with the wrinkles of grief trenching the lifeless grounds of their foreheads. Men pace from tent to tent, in search of matches to light a cigarette and tape to fix their boots. Barricades of bricks, parts of disassembled walls and sandbags, held together by old tires. Neon pink stains where paint-bombs exploded upon impact look comical on the charred buildings. Names of regions and cities inscribed across faces in black ink and plastered upon facades of closed restaurants and beer tents. And an endless sea of spray cans, emptied on the gold and white balustrades. Normality scarred with terror, scarred with war and the fight for justice. Sights witnessed by buildings weigh heavily on them, so it seems that they are pulled towards the ground, over the heads of the people, begging to collapse. Sighing and whispering, the dusty leaves of dwindling trees inhale and slowly exhale the smoke filled air. Pieces of metal, cardboard, bottles and garbage mounted on top of each other, forming an intimidatingly steep pile that towers over the ones brave enough to approach. The creosote tang of burning rubber on the bitten lips, red with inflammation. Parched tongue attempting to provide the desperately needed moisture. Smells of rusty metal, gunpowder and burnt tires mixed with the strong odor of unwashed bodies and alcohol, creating a vomit inducing bouquet. Swollen eyes of the protesters dry with threat, their heavy boots crack the scattered glass, creating an unsettling dissonance with the deafening roar of the revving engines. Gunshots bounced off the rugged terrain, echoing into the abyss. It seemed as if the world froze, in the midst of painful agony of anticipation. Aching, alone and intoxicated. Some enthusiasts are trying to revive bursts of patriotism and lift everyone spirits by crooning the national anthem. Weathered enthusiasm and cynical remarks meet the shouts of "Slava Ukraini". Calls in the name of grand goals and aspirations of the nation and people sound trivial the more they are said, and lose meaning as they leave the lips of the people saying them. It takes strength to realize that the wound is unhealable and gangrene is starting to spread. The reality of a revolution is less than heroic. It's full of drinking and eating stale dark bread with a thin layer of mustard spread on top. People mourn the death they have yet to discover, but they feel, intuitively. Death of dignity, the death of peace, the death of stability. The war left the country in shambles, economy crushed; a tragedy that will haunt the children of the future with its invisible, ghost-like presence. The bewildering kaleidoscope of stars appears and disappears to no one's appreciation, looked upon from the muddy trenches and dusty green tents. Bloodshot eyes focused on the enemy, instead. Crooked figures are hunched over the open fires in the streets, their backbones protruding through the thick camouflage jackets. Golden heat of the fire softens the harsh features and red patches of peeling, infected skin. A full glass is passed around with hands twisted from the daily work; bitten nails with layers of ash and dust underneath the rough edges. Some are praying, most gave up. Statistics kill dreamers and fighters by revealing the ugly truth that is so hard to accept. Hundreds killed, thousands wounded. Land was lost and land was won. The only spirits unbroken in this tragic reality are the ones in green glass bottles, and those are no longer pure either. As soldiers began mumbling the words of old tales mixed with drunken murmurs, I realized what it was that struck the chords of my soul. It was the genuineness, the warmth and tribal instinct to stay together. People felt like a handmade wooden piece of art, compared to the shallow plastic of the world. They sounded like prayer compared to the sinful existence. The wrinkles and bruises, imperfections and contortions were real, the deep throat warbling of ancient songs and quaver in their voices told the story of the greatest time and nation. A nation broken, but still worth dying for.