Poo-tee-weet?

Before I began reading Slaughterhouse-Five I turned to the last page and read the books last few words. "Poo-tee-weet?" Curiosity I guess triggered my body into wanting to know how the novel ended. It's funny; how people engage themselves in a war fully conscious of how its going to play itself out; knowing that sooner or later it will all come to an end. Life is funny that way. I recently broke up with my boyfriend. He cheated on me. I entered the relationship knowing that I wasn't going to marry him, he wasn't going to be the father of my children, and as anything good in life, it would eventually come to an end. Yet I still wanted to go for it. Desire and hope that it would all turn out well made me do it I guess. 

Spring had come and the Germans had left. The war was finally over. "Billy and the rest wandered out onto the shady street. The trees were leafing out. There was nothing going on out there, no traffic of any kind." Life after the war was dead. There was no life. Dead bodies, bombed buildings, and debris decorated Dresden's landscape. One bird said to Billy Pilgrim, "Poo-tee-weet?" 

At the beginning of the novel, Kurt Vonnegut, who is serving as the narrator, addresses his publisher Seymour Lawrence and apologizes for delivering such a short, fragmented manuscript. He says that in fact there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Once it is over, everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be quiet after a massacre, and it always is except for the birds. 

After finishing the book I asked myself, "why?" Why waste your time writing a book if a war is as insignificant as the tweet of a bird. Why did I get myself in a relationship knowing from the start what was to come of it? I came to the conclusion that there really is no answer. Having the novel end in "Poo-tee-weet?" brings me an empty closure. Why? I really don't know. Life is funny that way I guess. 

War and love are like a small paper cut. It cuts only the surface yet bleeds as if it had stabbed your heart. You cry at first. But eventually it stops bleeding. The pain stops slowly after; and the cut begins to heal. Getting better each day, until it is almost invisible. Yet the scar is still there. There is nothing more left to do except wait. You wait to eventually cut yourself again and start all over. I guess we are addicted. We are insane. We are "unstuck".