We are Sparta.

I hate to break it to Pat Benatar, but she got it all wrong. Love is not a battlefield. The city is.

When the sun rises in New York, it is as if the city, who spent the night doubled over, rises slowly, one vertebrae at a time. A movement so subtle and so contrived so as not to disturb the inhabitants before it attacks. The clouds seem to lift higher as the skyline takes their place. The sky-scrapers act as watch towers, where those who have deemed themselves important and convinced others to do the same, can watch as soldiers wage war on the streets of their enemy.

Soldiers leave their posts every morning in full armor. Their faces are hostile and cold. Breaking their concentration could be lethal. Their guard is up from the moment their soles hit the pavement, until they return to their makeshift campsite of a home.

As I walked past a fallen soldier on my way into a building that en-housed so much beauty and "glamour" I couldn't help but spend my day thinking of the harsh realities in such a hostile and brutal city.

It is a war in which camaraderie does not exist. It is every man for himself. If you fall in the streets, someone will pave a new path right over you. If you run out of ammo, good luck and asta la vista.

No matter which way you slice it, you can't help but feel personally attacked by the city and the people in it. To make it out of this city alive, you have to dress for the occasion.

Upon entering this city I was cashmere, an innocent bystander, destined to the feel the wrath of a roadside bomb as it tears through my delicate exterior. The veterans playing chess in the park are leather. Tough, all knowing, hardened in a beautiful way.

I am a cadet, they are captains.

I might not have earned my leather jacket yet.

But, if Spartans can fight a war in skirts and no shirts, I can fight in cashmere.

His helmet was stifling, it narrowed his vision. And he must see far. His shield was heavy. It threw him off balance. And his target is far away." Dilios (300)