The veteran walked victoriously through the final battle, passed all the deserts, mountains, oceans and landed in the promise terrain. But, this is not the end of the story.
She reaches for the water to satisfy her thirst and realizes that where she expected an ocean, lies only a pond which is not limpid; that its limits are discernible to her tired eyes. She rubs them and looks at the people around her to whom she looks invisible, who don’t like her look and accent, who are absorbed with body and don't believe in the injured soul that she strove so hard to save, who can’t even imagine what a battle-field looks like, who feel the warrior and people like her are mere invaders.
The heroin is a nobody now. Disillusionment and displacement, frustration and loneliness, the old infected scars, the new injuries that scratch the aged ones, and the exhaustion overrun. They can lay destruction upon the veteran in a way that tyranny, oppression and the betrayal of her little army couldn't.
The horror of meaninglessness sneaks under her skin, a temptation to hate the past, present and a disbelief in future runs in her veins. Lost and hurt, faithless and dizzy, she can't find the "self" she wanders around to find. But, no, this is not the end of the story, either.
She takes off her armor and leans against a tree, lets the sun shine on her face, lets the breeze caress her skin, and the dim light of the moon heal her pain. This is her chance to look back at all she has gone through, kiss the hands that has always hold her attentively, realize how deeply she suffered, contemplate the "here" and the "there" and come to term with her homelessness. No, no, the story hasn't ended yet.
Soon, she will recover. Soon, she will stand up again. Soon, she will hold the hands of the enlightened people who look for a cure for human's ignorance. Soon, she will begin to start again. Soon, very soon, she will hold her pen again and will start her subtle resistance....No, this story does not have an ending.