The Ageing Warrior

Resplendent in his glorious armor, adorned with his many swords, long and short, he had a Zen glint in his eyes of battles to win, of heads to severe, of hearts to pierce, of souls to scavenge, of bodies to injure, of unending bliss to endure. Bliss that spurts out of mutilated limbs; he was the warrior. That is how he remembered himself; a man unafraid. You can only inflict as much pain as you are willing to suffer on your self. He was definitely willing to die. He had killed many, some worthy, some not, but each one very satisfying.

Today, he stands in an impotent city, where people have put up lights to brighten each and every corner, holding a faded photograph of himself taken in an era that even time forgot; when he was young and restless. When he knew what he had to do: scalp, disembowel, slash. When the blade in his sure hands would meet vanquished flesh and bone in one fluid moment of grinding ecstasy leaving in its wake incredulous staring eyes fast losing consciousness; ebbing life. Ah! In the dance of death he found the fountain of his eternal life. Age has made him give that up. His own body betrayed him one day. His muscles, his sinew, his bone made a mockery of his valiant attempts to decapitate his last enemy. He resorted to poison instead, feeling and knowing at each step of the way about the depths he had sunk to. Was he the same man who was feared amongst his tribesmen? Was he the same man who had torn asunder the neck of another as if he were a mere fly? Was he the same man who survived countless wounds?

Why hast thou forsaken me?
I am here my son; you have forsaken me.

The warrior knew each inch of the way; he had walked towards madness once. But that was a long time ago and he was a different man. The Teacher had held his hand. No the Teacher had not even touched him once, but he did lead the way. Now with the Teacher dead, at least in body, his spirit still lives inside the warrior, all seemed lost. The warrior had a little less faith. Perhaps not! Perhaps he had taken a misstep; a detour of sorts, a small journey into the familiar comforts of money laundering, kidnapping, cutting business deals, writing letters, reading books of fantasy, drinking goblets of sweet wine…perhaps he needed to do so. This is how he will redeem himself towards madness once again. This time to dwell forever; never to return to the world of rabbits who dress like men and cows who believe they are women.

For now, he remains insatiable, shedding tears into the cosmos, talking to the Little Girl who attempts to provide succor from her lifeless breasts. Under the stars they stand each night awaiting moonrise, the mind that whispers of beauty each passing day, the mirror that reveals the travails of age each passing day, the eyes that show each other who they are, who they have been and who they may become: each passing day.

The Teacher speaks to him every night, the wonders of modern recording technology, but he doesn’t listen to the words. It is the sound of his voice that enthralls the warrior. It is the sound of peace. Peace that the warrior is hoping to find in this lifetime. Peace that will satiate, perhaps! Perhaps he needs to find that moment of glory when he stares into the eyes of the enemy and drives the blade into the throat. Perhaps that is peace. After all, he is an ageing warrior and he didn’t die in battle. The world is made not of men anymore; there are no worthy adversaries. Who shall be his rival? Who shall he spar with? Who shall cut his throat?

Death is the ultimate enemy; the one to who he will surrender. Yes! Death is worthy. He will choose his time and manner of death though. He won’t give Death the satisfaction of catching him unawares. He will not allow Death to decide when, where and how. He was a warrior, he will decide. I am ready, said the warrior.

Foray

Torn apart, on the edge of abyss, I ride each day, wondering what if I swerve (just a little bit)? What is it that I want but cannot have? What is it that I have but do not want? What scares me most is the answer: I do not know. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind a small voice squeaks out another question: Can I ever find an answer that will satisfy, that will satiate, that will fulfill? Again the selfsame answer: I do not know. And as the coward that I am, I leave it at that…

Perhaps it is too bold a burden to presume, perhaps it is too immense a query, perhaps it is just very simple. You know when the answer sits right under my nose, but I cannot see it. If it were a tiger, it would have eaten me by now. Since I still breathe, it definitely wasn’t a tiger; is it herbivorous then? Once again, I leave it at that…

Never before has the straddling of two worlds bothered me so…have I stumbled upon an alternative then…or is it a cocoon…perhaps I have my head in the sand like the ostrich who thinks that the pack of lions can’t see it because it cannot (its head is buried in the sand remember…catch up). Trudging the lines of this carpentered world comes easily: the system is in place and rules are quite obvious. One need only apply one’s mind…or one’s body. Walking the path into the self…ah! Now that’s bloody tough because the Queensbury regulations apply no more. Time and space oscillate with random precision; dark days give in to darker nights leading to feeble sunrises; somewhere in the middle of it all I sit waiting…waiting for audible whispers…waiting for barbaric twists…waiting for fragrance…waiting for gustative delights…waiting just to feel. There’s once hitch, however. All around there are only ashes. And I am the last bit of warmth left in what used to be burning coal. I leave it at that…

What is it that I have but do not want? Everything.
What is it that I want but do not have? Everything!

Quite a dilemma…is it not? Everything is not mine for taking…or is it? If it is, then why have I not pillaged already? If it is not, then why am I debating this point? Quite another dilemma now…is it not? If I write and write and write I may end up with quite a few dilemmas. Perhaps today is not the day…but I wonder would I reach the mother of all dilemmas if I carry forth in this endeavor? Is that the challenge I should pose for myself? Will I be able to face it? Sensory deprivation, the lab psychologists (psychometrist, I believe is the technical term) say, leaves one with a feeling of loss… but that’s still a sensation… Therefore, what is it that can see seeing without seeing? What is it that can hear hearing without hearing? What is it that can taste tasting without tasting? What is it that can think thinking without thinking? What is it that can smell smelling without smelling? What is it that can feel feeling without feeling? Need I say more…I leave it at that…. And it’s all good...

Torn apart on the edge of abyss, I ride each day, wondering how beautiful everything looks…

And I leave it at that.