This Brocade is by John and used the word Guilt and Elation.
At first it was not the ten thousand identical white headstones, stuck like rows of shark teeth into the March sod but the sod itself, a mushy, yellow-green series of strips that entered his mind. He walked among the endless galleries of the uniformly interred soldiers, the fragrance of grass rising to his nostrils , vapor into the cold air. His shoes were wet through, and the sod squished as he moved.
And then it happened. It came to him like a sudden opening of the sky after days of cloud. He could feel the weight of his body lighten as he navigated the channels of grass. It was as though a distant voice had finally come clear as he neared his father’s grave, and the words that he had struggled so long to make out now took on the hard, glassy clarity of the here and now.
It was all his fault.
And the fault, the recognition that it was he himself that was the source of events of the past, ballooned in his chest, filling it with the air of utter certainty, of comfort. He was cause among the causeless. He was liberated at last, at last relieved from the monotony of his former wonderment, released into the joy of a simple, long-awaited awakening.