Jealous

"Eh, Egoman, you pilot ah?"

Not the first time I'd been hit with it.

I was holding my helmet by its kevlar shell,

positioned it next to my hips as I walk.

Like a pilot.

Well, some sergeants are particular with this habit.

Army men aren't suppose to hold their helmet as such.

Don't ask me why.

Neither do I find any serious issues with doing so.

Then one day, came The Reason.
Everyone'd just been done with the standard obstacle course.

Panting, perspiration blurring my vision, I gulped down

what seemed like gallons of water to drown my thirst.

As the sergeants were yelling at us to submit our number tags,

came a tiny, distant noise.

Steadily it crescendo'd into a thunderous roar.

In that five seconds of eternity,

time stopped so that even the sergeants could

look upon what is to come

in envy and awe.

Ripping across the cloudless Great Blue were three fighter jets,

as if looking down upon us with air of mockery.

An awkward silence set in and things resumed shortly.

Now I know why I can't hold my helmet the way I do.

You. Are. Jealous.

It can only be your dream.

Never a reality.

"Sergeant, you wanna be pilot ah?"