At the tender age of 17, there is basically little that a kid my age can own. Oh, there are the generalities, such as clothing or books, and all the trivial little shit that a teenager seeks out. I'm not referring to those kinds of things. No, not even close. I'm talking about specific items that even many adults don't have in their possession, or perhaps if they do, fail to fully comprehend the depth of what they stand for; of what they ultimately cost.Duty. Honor. Commitment. The privileges of the free world, once coveted, have become mundane to the modern populace. Our freedoms came with sacrifice in wars fought long ago, and sporadically over the ages. People came to forget that. As science and economic growth exploded in the latter part of the recent century, their outlook on such things entered the realm of falsely expected entitlement. Perhaps it is in our nature, as human beings, to be lulled by periods of peace and prosperity. It is also perhaps in the greater scheme of things that for those very reasons war comes and goes in cycles, often for reasons that remain obscure, but mostly to remind us.War, in its own concept, is a very personal thing. It reshapes how a person thinks and acts, demands that you adapt and evolve with it, lest you become yet another victim of its terrible nature. If you end up a soldier, war will turn you inside out to expose your every weakness. It takes from you everything you hold dear; individuality, love, compassion, and in return gives you despair. It is very much a living organism. A thing. Can it therefor be owned?Very much so. There is not a single combat veteran alive who will deny that fact. After seeing your friends torn asunder, maimed, and killed, a member of any armed force realizes that like it or not, they have purchased their very own acreage in hell. Yet, as terrible as it is, a soldier, sailor, and pilot will without hesitation lay down their life for the greater good. Sacrifice themselves for their buddies, believing that their deaths will be remembered when freedom once again reigns.My name was Minerva Carreno back then, when I was but a teenager with my head in the clouds. Like most everyone around me, I had no understanding about what a war was, of its meaning, of its cost. But whether by fate or the intention of the God that I believe in, I was soon to pay for my own membership in hell. The 1st Galactic War is what the history books named it, but myself and the servicemen and women that were there and survived to tell our tales knew better. The 1st Galactic War is what the masses call it, but for each of us, it's far more personal. More intimate. It belonged to each of us; every Marine, every Army soldier, Navy sailor, and Air Force pilot. It was ours. It was mine. That's why this journal is thus named.It was my war.Minerva's War.