Im sitting here now, legs dangling, back pressed against the wood, and I swear, the suns just as hot as it was in 62. These benches? The Confederates put em right here, right in front of these cannons, back when the whole damn world was screaming and thundering. Im not a soldier, not anymore. Im just tired tired of standing, tired of watching, tired of the weight of history that never lets you rest. They sat here, sweating, eyes glued to the horizon, expecting the Union to come. Im just here, camera in hand, wondering if Im the only one who cant imagine the smoke and the screams. The cannons are silent now, but the air still hums with what was. Im exhausted. And Im not even the one who had to fire them.

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