The Eternal Fight

There are times when life just drains from your soul.


Wounds sustained in battle are meant to be harming, crippling, ultimately killing. Every person has their limit no matter how those wounds are obtained.


A master is somebody who can go into battle and sustain no injury but he only gets there on the principle that in his youth he survived what others could not. He moves with perfect grace and flow, no movement is a waste of energy. They have come to understand that the limits of their body can be pushed beyond it's threshold by focus of will alone.


I am not a master. I have not the qualities. Instead I feel like a man who has taken a spear to the gut only to be left dying and bleed out alone. A long and agonizingly painful death. No hope for recovery other than a quick mercy granted by fiercest friends or an honorable enemy.


Instead there is just the hollow emptiness inside that says, "no matter where you have ended up in life... Death has found you."


So you sit, and wait while the scorching sun and the frozen ground crush you between their polarities. The ground drinks up your blood as if it will give it life. The sun rages against your flesh because you will never see another day.