Journey of a Ronin

My feet are tired, my back aches, and my legs shake from exhaustion, but I must continue forward. I must not stop. A warrior never admits defeat, for defeat is disgrace. Defeat, to a warrior, is the ultimate stain on the honor. If I stop, I must accept defeat. If I stop, I will defeat myself. This is the way of the warrior.

I will not stop.

My arms are heavy, and I am so tired, I can no longer lift my arms. My kimono is drenched, both from the oppressive heat, as well as the unimaginable effort. I have stopped sweating, but not for lack of effort. My toes burn as they stick to the ground, and the skin tears off as I move them again. I want to stop. I want to cry out in pain. I cannot even flinch, because to flinch is to give into the pain. Instead, I grind my bloody toes into the terrain once more, and continue forward.

This day does not seem to ever want to end.

I move with the count, the command of those reviewing me. They look to see if I am worthy. I will not stop. I will not fail. They ask if I want a break. I could take it, and no one would look down on me. I do not, because if I stop now, I doubt I will regain my momentum. I tell them all "No." The man who brought me to this review board smiles a bit, as does the man in charge. They are not smiling the same way. One is proud of the choice, and the other wishes to test my bravado to its limit.

I finish this review sparring with each member on the floor. I am beyond exhausted, but I fight all the same. I fight as if my life depended on it. It does. I cannot fail again. I cannot fall victim to my own weaknesses ever again. I am sure to kick the head reviewer in the front of the chest, not to injure or insult, but to educate. He is the last fight.

A few words are spoken, with joy in his eye, as to the mistakes I made in this review. I stood by, saying nothing, looking beyond him, into the void of the meditative mind. I listen only enough to respond accordingly, "Hai, Sensei." "No, Sensei." The look in his eyes showed his desire. I was to fail, again. My design, my weakness, my imperfections offended him. I was not what he thought a warrior should be.

The reviewers all turned back to deliberate, when one asks, "What is on your kimono?" The head reviewer looks down, then back at me, and asks if I was bleeding.

"Hai."

When he asks where I was bleeding, I raise a foot, and a drop of blood falls to the floor. The eyes of all reviewers widen. I switch sides, and more blood seeps from my wounds, and falls to the floor. The man who brought me to this review beams with pride, as if he had just completed this day-long review with bleeding feet. He did not. This is my moment to stand, basking in my honor, in a puddle of my own blood.

The head reviewer glared down, then turned around, his entire mood was changed. He was now even more insulted. My imperfections had outdone his best efforts to make me fail, and in one day, I had spilled more of my blood on his dojo floor, than he had in his entire twenty years teaching on that floor. He wanted to stand, beaming in his perfect prejudice, stating that I did not have what it took to be a warrior. He lost face, and he lost his honor. That was the last time I would ever call him "Sensei."

From this day on, no one decides my fate, or my direction, but myself. I am now a warrior, and one with no master. Now, I am a Ronin, born of fire and rebellion against the familiar and accepted standards. I am beyond these people, basing merits on what they see on the outside, rather than what I contain on the inside. My imperfections define me, and my strength to go beyond those imperfections defies their understanding.

I am a warrior.

I did not stop.