The battle approaches. Yes, I can hear the horns. I can sense the fear trembling across the air. People's breath is ragged, and see them quietly sharpening their weapons: butcher knives, stilettos, shamshirs, and even old butter knives. They do not really sharpen it for the enemy however, because everyone knows that everyone else will turn into the enemy. The perturbation is imminent, because sooner or later that time will come, the time when we are awarded a lifeline in a losing war: those first few who pass get the jackpot, whereas the ones who fail will get not even their wounds tended.
That is how it should be. That is how it has always been. The victor wins, writes his own history, and people accept. Because, hey, if they don't, the victor will probably over power them anyway. That is why he was the victor in the first place. His talents know no bounds. He is a pure killing machine trained for quick tournament combats.
These battles these days. Huh. They turn into tournaments. No one is interested in dying, and killing others because disposing off the body becomes a problem. So, they fight where they could not die. Nonetheless, they are desperate to win. The spoils of war are the same, the treasure that could be theirs is still the same: money, and fortune, and good resources. That has always been one primary motivation for war. And they all know it; that is why they sharpen whatever they've got. They learn dirty tricks, they learn how to overpower the opponent, they learn to win. They never learn how to fight.
They never learn how to draw the sword. They never learn the beauty of the movement; they never learn to hear the swish of the air as the sword cuts through it; how the ephemeral glint of the sun on the blade seems to be an orb of gold around the swordsman as he moves the sword with lightning speed. They will not learn the deep meditation of the swordsman in conversation with his sword. They never want to learn the beauty, for they cannot see it. Such is the condition these days.
They don't want to learn about the way, as Musashi puts it. The way of action, the way of the sword, or the way of science: they are all ways. And to follow the way, one needs to immerse themselves in it, wholly, not breathing the air. Because only when they start to breath the way can they see all, and can they master all that is around them. It is the way a true swordsman must fight against; It is the way he needs to live. For battles are unnumbered, the work of gain and loss, a method for balancing sheets. The victors there are applauded by the other victors, and everyone else they consider scum.
I am such a scum. I want to live in the way. I want to, oh yes, I want to. But, I do not have a master, because my teachers are but telling me to sharpen my sword, and judging me on my sharpening skills. I am no master of polishing: I am but a humble swordsman. But, my marks say I am a poor swordpolisher, and no matter how much of my skill in swordsmanship I show them, they will only look at my polishing. They say it is poor. That is true. I would rather find a good sword polisher, than break my sword with my clumsy hands. But, I will be judged for my polishing.
Well, so be it. I will not part the way.
Yet, Musashi says, that one after mastering the way, can defeat any combatant, and survive any battle, for he is intense in preparation always. That is also true. Yet, I am not a master of the way. It is a lifelong process, and I wish not to disturb it.
But, I look at tomorrow, when the great horns will sound. The beginning of the battle. I wish not to partake in this wily dance of death and life, that is not why I live. Yet, if I fail tomorrow, which I will I know (I am not foolish enough to think I am the best in the world), I will be sore, with probably a septic wound to be taken care of. I will be called names, and they will say what bad parenting I had got. I don't like that. Well, what can be done?
I quietly take my sword, and start rubbing it with wet stones.
Sharpen. Sharpen. Sharpen.
