A Lasting Impact

Three layers. Three colours. One symbol. One meaning.
All feared.

As the red flag blew in the background, I let the wind blow past me. I stood, back to the symbol, facing what one may call “the rest of the world.”

It was red. Blood red. Right now, all it symbolized was power. Years from now, it would symbolize a nationalistic tragedy which would possibly be the rise and fall of a presently invincible country.

Red.

On top of that was a circular layer of white. Cold. A symbol of the coldest–not climatically–of all nations. Cold blooded, cold hearted. Cold minded. Indifference.

White.

The final was more than a colour, more than a symbol. More than what it represented, as of now. This colour–black–was the cause behind one of the worlds’ largest genocides, which would be spoken, debated and even feared for years, generations, centuries.

The hooked-cross, coloured a solid black, waved gallantly on top of it’s indifferent power.

Death.

Death, taken over by indifference, all for the cause of power.

All in reaction to deprivation in his childhood.

My hero.
A nation’s pride.
A continent’s downfall.
The world’s greatest impact.

Three layers. Three colours. One symbol. One meaning.
One word.

Swastika.

I turned to face the flag, waving proudly, high above the nation which it symbolized. Above one man, who in 4 years, changed a system which was presemably infallible.

The cold wind kissed my lips and I shivered. It wasn’t the ice in the air–no, that I could handle–it was the knowledge of what I had to become in order to preserve this highly deserved and hard earned power.

I was close.

The red in my blood: my hunger for power.
The palish white on my face: my indifference towards those who hadn’t earned their diplomatic immunity.
But not the black: I had not yet encountered what some call death, or something like it. My cause was clear, my purpose definite.

To fight for freedom…

…or die trying.

~An Insightful Blogger~swastika

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