Journal of a Oriental Rug Maker

This is a passage found in a journal written by a swordman and an oriental rug maker's apprentice:



My cautiously built wall is so fragile and thin... not at all the strong fortress of truth, self-understanding and peace I seek, desire. I can hardly block my dark thoughts, the evil memories and the drumming of old sayings that I have never managed to purge from my mind.

The strong live and the weak die.

I barely contain inside of myself my own emotions. My smile, my ever-present mask, is no longer the salvation I once believed it to be, the cage I had sealed all of my own guilt, confusion and pain within. Designed only to fool others, and it was effective in its purpose. But now...there is nothing can save me from my internal ache, my suffering.

 I never wanted to...
Oh but I did, didn’t I?

     Day to day, month after month, walking, wandering, an endless cycle. Never have I come close to even the slightest bit of deliverance from this insanity, my journey all the more futile as I continue. I drag myself from village to village forest to forest. Never even setting a steady pace of footsteps, unable to steady even the simplest of motions.
    
Why didn’t you save me?
Where were you then?
The strong survive, and the weak die.
But that’s not true. The strong must protect the weak?
Maybe that’s true.
But it’s not my truth.
 
 
Where is the truth? Where is the peace, the acceptance? Where is the relief from the ache in my heart, the turmoil of my mind? Looking inward, I know that the constant thing, the only steady beat, rhythm, stable wall, is one, not of comfort, but of my past, my master’s teachings, my own thoughtless slaughters. The ever-present reminder of my past torture, past upbringing.