The Warrior of Existence

Summary: The Warrior is at first a man, then a mortal, and then descends through the three stages of mortal existence, becoming a warrior in a realm of mutiny, never resting until he conquers his third trial, and is let back into the river for it all to begin again. The change in narrative is deliberate, for reasons that I shall not divulge.

The walls are chasing me. That's the scariest thing, the hum of buzzing walls just waiting for me to walk up to them so that they can grab me by the collar and drag me to their secret hiding; it is an irrational belief of mine, that nothing is hollow, nothing is uncontained. Everything has a source, an origin of importance, which is shallower deep into the mist of static memory. So I have to avoid the walls, side - stepping them, trying to doge their fearful tryst. But they kept chasing me.

For the past days, or lifetime, as it seemed, I had wondered. I usually wondered lots of things, such as why eggs always have to go with bacon at breakfast. But this was different. I had been experiencing nightmares, I guess you could call them, for the better part of the month. Everything afterward was dim in comparison; everything became simple, I went to school, got home, had tea, a bath, and then went to bed. It was simple, routine. It had changed. Somewhere in Limbo, I had lost the box. The box was locked; but it was dangerous. Roaming in the box would most certainly lead to some kind of discombobulating, what kind, I did not know. But it had to lead to somewhere. Now, I know where it leads. If the dangerous box is opened, then it leads right here, to this one space on this one planet in this one room. The box leads to where I once was, and thanks to the box, where I am again. I did it so that it feels like hell. I opened the box to see it ripping the bees from the bonnet, enjoying the sombre 'squelch' let out from the one bee when it was pierced by an arrow of luck.

I never knew.

The answers were bare, undiluted somewhere within the sphere of eternal life. But all I could see was the static; the numerous layers of cloth placed so strategically right beyond my line of sight so that I could never see anything clearly. The piece of cloth was hand - maid, with a patch of crises - crossed hatchets undone to a silver clasp. I could imagine a faery wearing the cloth, like a maiden in disguise. She would be unrecognisable in the frenzy of buzzing bees, hidden by the same ghost that haunts me to a sterling grave. The cloth was the substance banning me. It was banning me from the world in a velocity as far as light, never letting me utter a syllable of resembled peace. This haunting raindrop was so small, yet it could never cease utter destruction; the one raindrop made of cloth would gut me until I was simple in its hands.

And it’s already started.

But the problem was, I was in a semi - plausible existence here. I did not expect anything above the bottom line, the lip pressing against a coffin would not kiss me as soon. This was strange, and I was quite sure I was succumbing to madness. But I kept myself sane in the wrappings of a box worthy of fight. I kept my sanity until heaven's winds would blow me across the moors, screeching me along a sketchy page, and letting me rest between the muddled lines. I would rest there for a few centuries, and then continue on in an eternal existence not chained; the orbs of plasma would become dense in the radiating closeness, meaning that the connection was gone, the invisible cord chaining me to the blue and green swirls of light would dance at a lamppost, letting me be free, and flow like a river through to the ocean. That is, until the wind would break me down into droplets, and carries me on its wings. Here, the Veil’d one would be undone, the cloth taken away. She would see freely without the guidance of a lightened path; and she would be happy. See, I once read that the Warrior will let not light guide him; he would make light become part of him, following him, and letting him be the leader.

But the light fails.

The sparkles would not fail the spotted plasma. They are forever and ultimately destined for an eternity of flight together in the one speckle of dusty rain. And so the light drops would not fail the girl. She would say hello to the droplets, embrace them, and send them on holiday. It was the life of an other worldly existence. See, the glut had encaged the warrior, making it burst within a frenzy of bosom. So the Warrior had passed once again, sparkling into dust not like the first step. But the third had, and always would be, the hardest step. Once a Warrior had taken two footsteps, he would step into the shallow waters of a pond, deserted by the desert that bought it there. The pond needed to digest the warrior, to lead him to his destiny. So the pond would gurgle, burp, and finally chew and drown the blooded Warrior, and in his teeth, would grasp upon the tendrils of gold fortune which would act as a ticket to the stairway, the silver stairway which lay directly near Asphodel, yet high as a chisel, and he would descend the staircase.

But He dies with the Warrior

Directly a lie upon fate was the ultimate belief that with a Warrior, dies his faith. The boundaries in fact we built are strong; held tight enough by so many birds that we could indulge in a little faith while in the first two stages, and still have room enough to fit through the boundaries. You see, if you want to take any step forward, the little space inside the ruby redness cannot be empty; for any succession, there must be a guidance, the same way as for any election into power, there must be a candidate. Otherwise the space reserved for the body of life would be left empty, untouched, and uninhabited. And a Warrior cannot fight a war if weight is lost from a missing space. Alas, indulge in the pot of gold, and take out a coin. It may be riddled with tiny little faces, of all the gods in a battle of the worlds. For once we are out of one world, the others' must fight for our space. They all want a Warrior, a helping hand in the upkeep of a burdened country. So these worlds each fight for you, until in the end, one is sat down, not lain to rest in a limbo so like the Warrior's own. And then the Prince of the world won takes a crystal, and crashes the burden into the Warrior's hand. There, it breaks, and there, is left the only refuge in which to lie. So the Warrior works without breaks, until the softness is expanded in orange pimples, and you dissolve into the sanded shores of a cleaned beach, wasting away into the river once again. See, my dear, all organism is a cycle, and all faith, a blessing.

My first attempt at anything like this, but please review.