While researching the next [previous] piece of writing, I read the following, written by Sebastian Junger to his friend and collaborator, Tim Hetherington shortly after Hetherington was killed in Misrata, Libya
"I’ve never even heard of Misrata before, but for your whole life it was there on a map for you to find and ponder and finally go to. All of us in the profession—the war profession, for lack of a better name—know about that town. It’s there waiting for all of us. But you went to yours, and it claimed you."
I read it and I felt a small tug of jealousy. Not for the dying, but for the potential, the mythology, the chance to look into the abyss – the notion that destiny exists and these lives we lead aren't just bungled day after bungled day. It's a fucked up thing to feel, but these days, more than ever, there it is.