Warrior

What if we are all warriors?

Each individual different, unique, shining stars gleaming in the darkness. Do they pull at each other, attached by tiny strings, hoping to bring pairs together, like halves of a soul forever parted? Are we emboldened by this closeness, inseparable, magically twined by these fateful whirlwind emotions?

How brightly do we have to burn to find those other lights in the darkness? What grand things must we do, what dragons do we have to slay, in order to open our eyes in this vast dungeon and see that one flickering candle light at the exit?

Which monsters get the better of us? Shatter our armor, snap our weapons, break our ribs... batter and bruise us, test us like any hero to see if, when the monsters finally die, we are still alive. clinging? Opening swollen eyes to find that one flickering light. An open hand, something we've striven for all our lives, that one connection. Desperate. Fierce. Brave.

The thing we are told is the most beautiful thing, is that light, the one steadily pulling itself on a thread through the void to your side, bleeding where you lay. We are told that this magic has an extraordinary power, a force, an unearthly mysticism. It will cure all, heal all wounds, and mend all broken hearts.

But when my eyes close, will I open them to this light? As I reach for the hilt of my broken blade, the monster stirring across the hall, fingers shaking with desperation, I wonder. Would it not just be easier to close my eyes? Allow this beast to finish me off, rather then face the disappointment of total darkness, no lantern of dancing light on a silver thread. What if I let my shield fall, then to my knees, buckled beneath me, head bent and waiting for the final blow?

What of those other warriors who fell much the same? Alone, in the dark, eyes open, searching, pleading for that light to save them. What of those valiant souls, fighting against time, and life, and reality and hate and grief - what of the ones who have fallen?

Where do we go?