Barbed Wire

Barbed Wire

Barbed wire zigs and zags across No Man’s Land. It crosses trenches and barricades and land mines—deadly obstacles. Barbed wire stretches as far as you can see, tearing flesh and spilling blood.

Across No Man’s Land—the deadly open ground marked with those obstacles—is the enemy.

We allow obstacles into our minds that prevent us from facing the enemy, from the hand-to-hand combat that makes warriors. Warriors are made in the crucible of bloody knuckles and broken bones, mud and rain, steel and smoke.

You and I must cross that No Man’s Land, the trenches and barbed wire and land mines, to become what we wish to become. There are no handouts. There are no shortcuts. There are no cheat codes or discounts.

There are no fucking trophies across the barbed wire.


There is only the enemy in all his ferocity. He is well-armed and well-trained. His boots are heavy and his bayonets are fixed.

He is waiting to prove you wrong.

It is not for the gentle, soft man to cross No Man’s Land, and in this modern world, no one will shame you for staying in your own trench, for hiding from the gunfire, for staying far away from the barbed wire.

Perhaps that’s our modern curse: softness to the point of stillness, complacency.

But it is not for the warrior to hide behind his obstacles: his fears, doubts, and uncertainties. The warrior is meant to advance and fight, to cut his way through every obstacle and face his enemy. The warrior must lace his own boots and sharpen his own knives for that hand-to-hand combat.

To become what you wish to become, you must bleed. You must fight. You must navigate obstacles. And finally, you must prove to yourself that your best effort is always forward, that your ferocity is worthy of a dangerous enemy.

When barbed wire tears his flesh, the warrior pushes forward, savage certainty in his footsteps. When he falls, when he tastes dirt, he crawls—for miles and miles if he must. When the warrior is beaten, when he is unrecognizable, he becomes a new man.

It is when I am surrounded by barbed wire and barricades that I find out what kind of dog I am.

There is no plain of death I cannot cross.

There is no enemy who can outlast me.

There is no fight I cannot win.

Never Fucking Quit.


1 comment

  • Mark Blaha

    Love it!

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