The Legion
Last evening I watched an interesting documentary on TV about the French Foreign Legion. If everything goes wrong in my life, I was pondering, then I’ll join them! Leaving everything behind, getting a new name, a new identity, even a new meaning perhaps.
Becoming a different person by extensive and cruel trainings and missions, never bound to worry about any meaning anymore. As gruesome as it sounded, it also bore a certain connotation of freedom hence to the uncreativity of thine own existence in the legion. 1
But a couple of minutes ago I was bringing out the trash only in jeans and a T-shirt when the cold Salzburgian wind blew and rattled on the blinds — still it wasn’t really cold, noting below 4 or 5°C. When returning after disposing of my garbage, the moment came when I totally rejected the thought of eventually becoming a legionnaire: It felt so terribly cold! I thought that I couldn’t stand it any longer and I just wanted back into my warm room with a scent of coffee in the air. I am such a wuss, I don’t even respect myself much.
From today’s perspective I can’t imagine anymore how I pulled off one year as an uncreative, ever freezing Zivildiener; getting up at 4:40, washing firetrucks in the chill of northern Styrian winters… *shiver*
- Reading this, it looks like a burn-out-syndrome is looming on my horizon… ↩
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