I had purpose once.

A morning ritual that made sense. Rather, a rising ritual, as it relied not on the position of the sun. 

Waking, donning what passes for clothing, some basic hygiene maintenance, and never once forgetting my weapons constituted this ritual. 

Each day unique. Each day different. Each day, the same. Pray to my God to spare me that I might reach home alive. Pray that I might make others reach their gods. Pray for peace.

Yes, I had purpose, once.

I was trusted, even. Faith was put in my abilities. The faith of men whose creed claimed no higher power than man. Men, whose faith rested in both otherworldly spirits and in mere mortals, had faith that I would not fail.

Once, I mattered.