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One morning in the midst of a paintball match, I got shot in the back of the head. That afternoon, in the restroom of a fast food restaurant, I was rinsing my hair out in one of the sinks. As I watched the bright pink water swirl down the drain, I reflected on the shot that left me with a painful soreness.

Nursing the stinging bruise through my hair I looked at myself in the mirror. The make-shift camouflage I had on was now covered with patches of dried mud and splotches of colorful paint, my hands were scratched up where thorny vegetation managed to get through the gloves, my back ached from being hunched over in an effort to keep my head down constantly, my boots were slightly waterlogged… After several moments I heard the voice of my conscience rise up from the depths of my mind to ask me…

Why?

Frankly, I didn’t know what the answer was until I made it back to my table. The sound of my friends bonding in raucous camaraderie immediately caught my ears and it all became clear to me.

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