My Sword



I am cool. I am collected. No, I will not yell. No, I will not cry. I will not fight you, not with my fists.

But do not for a moment believe that I will let you get away with it. My sword is drawn. My pen never runs out of ink. There is always more space to write on. It might change colour, white to black, but it will always be there.

With every word I write, I draw blood. You pretend that my pen does not hurt you. You are far away, but not too far from my tameshigiri, the cut of my sword. With every word, I perfect my iaido.

Time, discipline, efficiency. All that you never had in your attacks. All that I have learnt to perfect.

I write, I cut, I draw blood, I survive, with honor, and discipline. I am a warrior, Tsuwamono. I defend those that you oppress.

I take a bow, not in deference, not for you. My Saikeirei, is in honor of those who will survive in spite of your atrocities.

So I bow, for their honor, then I draw my sword, in their defence. And mine.


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