She sits on the sill.
And looks at him as he remembers…
…it had always begun again – one skirmish after the other, a new battle breaking out even as the older one was finishing.
But he could, always, go on,
because his elders had instructed him well,
“the war is always within.” – the timeless truth.
So he had trained, not by choice but necessity. If he hadn’t, the war would have consumed him…
from inside out. And truth was his true weapon.
But then a truth will always be a lie until it is experienced to be the truth.
It is only when the lie is touched – that truth reveals herself.
And in the darkness of massive, concrete buildings, the man remembers…
he was not warrior. And he realises, finally and completely.
The war, in fact, had never been ‘in there’ or ‘out there’.
There was no war.
The slivers of moonlight begin to change colour,
soft pinks, across his black skin
like fresh wounds.
His breath becomes his guide as he begins,
for the first time,
to explore the emptiness within.
The man sees the face of his enemy, his friend, his healer, his destruction – and it looks like him.
Somewhere inside, he begins to waken.