Scrape the shibboleths off the hamachi. Praxis. Place them on your breath. Count the nacre nestled between each. God, if omnipotent, if omnipresent, can only manifest as air. Learn its verstality. Enter this weather of war, blade-braised, arced, unsheathed; the ravaging grace of lashed steel. Hone the silver of your artful cutlass against your own bones. Scrape off the excesses. Set your skin to an invisible tone. There is grace in darkness. Pray before the kill. Kneel. Heel. This dance is gentle. This dance is grim. Dance, we still.
Be composed of camouflage, always. Wear the poetic magnificence of black. Learn its cadence and its chaos. Swallow fire on the path to Becoming. Learn to fight solo, eyes ablaze, soul enkindled. Heed the shinai’s fall. Warm the blood, bleed the warmth. Patience is an iceberg. The embers of your movement from ether to ore, from ore to sword; they will thaw the hiemal off the coldest days.
Steel swaggers, edges the gridiron. Guns scream rage, they are vulgar, rambling: their sable vernacular lost to the resolute immediacy of temper. There is nothing temperamental about a sword. It awakens to patience, and only that. Blades dance elegance, sub silentio. Learn to cede your voice. Summon the Self. Solely that. Bring your self to Peace. You are your own compass.
Position your grip such that no storming of the surface can pry it open from your intent. Lock in the deathly vise of a pit viper. Steady your fingers such that the hand when closed around your struggle should not unwrap itself before the rival is razed. Do not bind by halves.
The chassis protects, it doesn’t define. What the world imprints is merely your exo-skeleton; do not get too attached to this fugitive form. The body abandons, internalise this fact. Your morass of muscle and blood underneath is your keep for not too long, nurture it, do not wed your sustenance to this physical nature. That said, the steel when unveiled consistently turns to rust. The turn of time demands you keep the blade protected. Apprentice the soul so it falters not in this game of smoke and mirrors.
Elbows stretched like sentences, adoringly nipped: this is the grammar of war. Gradients are agile; some covertly wasted, some restored to death. The edge of a thing is its limits defined. Perch the mind upon these razor curves. Dangle from the verge, meditate on the median. Dwell each day in this perpetual antithesis.
War is not pathology, it is semiology. The sharpened quill by which to enter this alphabet of revolution matters the most. Warriors court solitude and nothing but that. The smallest of things, the greatest of change. When you cut someone, you must take a solitary swipe, you must pare hard. Cut once, sever forever. Bushido prescribes - avoid before hurt, hurt before maim, maim before kill. Tattoo this sutra upon the skin of your mind. Engage honour not power. Do not perceive this body thus dented by years of scars as episodes of decay but chapters of denouement. Arrange your wounds into weapons. Time’s movement can be supine or stealth-riddled. Make no room for anxiety. Nor fear. Proceed. When the moment is ready for you, it will ascend. Point the tip of the blade in its direction, unravel it.
Be neither of roots nor wings but of the Earth and the Wind.
This is the brogue of the blade; enter a Ronin, exit a Samurai.
— Scherezade Siobhan©
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Note : I have been training in Kenjutsu & Iaido for nearly a decade & am a nihonto collector. Martial arts rooted me through the turbulent years of discovering that I am schizo affective. This is my ode to the sword.