Post by nuclearnightwings on May 28, 2017 3:15:59 GMT
Me and Basho were alone on the beach. We just looked out into the sea. Powerful waves crashed against the shore of the beach, like the giant palm of an angry sea god that wanted to squash us. The wind howled at us as it pushed against our powerful bodies. The sun sank beneath the horizon, robbing us of light. Maybe trying to tell us it was closing time. Time to get out.
We just stood there, silent and defiant. Unimpressed by nature's beauty, unafraid of its threats. Fear is at the heart of reverence. And fear doesn't have a home in me or Basho. Life is too short to waste it on groveling. That's why we left Japan's puro scene. That's why we refuse to shoulder the burden of carrying our father's legacies on our backs. Cleaning the dojo toilets, untying the boots of senior wrestlers and jobbing, jobbing, jobbing until we paid our dues? For what? Out of respect for some hierarchy that puts broken down old-timers at the top and young, hungry lions like me and Basho at the bottom?
Tradition is a vampire, that's what it is. Its dead men trying to sink their claws into the living and enslave them. Trying to control your actions and your life from beyond the grave. Well, we came into this world kicking and we sure aren't gonna stop until our bodies are cold.
Life is simple. Its you against nature and society. Society tries to enslave you with its morals and traditions and nature tries to kill you outright.
And if you're a man, well you fight back with everything you've got. Then you die. Ain't nothing else.
One of the waves rose up and came down right next to me and Basho, splashing us and leaving our unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts all wet. I raised up my arms, clenched my fists and gave it back a roar.
Basho joined in, ripping his shirt off and flinging it into the water as he did.
Two powerful statues, silhouetted against the night sky. Two outlaw rebels.
Basho crossed his hands in an "X"; I slashed a thumb across my throat.
The knees went first. Became rubbery noodles unable to support my body. My hands blocked me from falling face first. Without even trying, we were doing the same gestures our father's always did after winning a match. The roar, everything...
We'd gone across an ocean to escape them...and there they were. Inside of us. Was I standing defiant against tradition...or was I running from it? Suddenly I didn't know.
"Get up. Get up and fight my son," his voice whispered in my ear.
We just stood there, silent and defiant. Unimpressed by nature's beauty, unafraid of its threats. Fear is at the heart of reverence. And fear doesn't have a home in me or Basho. Life is too short to waste it on groveling. That's why we left Japan's puro scene. That's why we refuse to shoulder the burden of carrying our father's legacies on our backs. Cleaning the dojo toilets, untying the boots of senior wrestlers and jobbing, jobbing, jobbing until we paid our dues? For what? Out of respect for some hierarchy that puts broken down old-timers at the top and young, hungry lions like me and Basho at the bottom?
Tradition is a vampire, that's what it is. Its dead men trying to sink their claws into the living and enslave them. Trying to control your actions and your life from beyond the grave. Well, we came into this world kicking and we sure aren't gonna stop until our bodies are cold.
Life is simple. Its you against nature and society. Society tries to enslave you with its morals and traditions and nature tries to kill you outright.
And if you're a man, well you fight back with everything you've got. Then you die. Ain't nothing else.
One of the waves rose up and came down right next to me and Basho, splashing us and leaving our unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts all wet. I raised up my arms, clenched my fists and gave it back a roar.
Basho joined in, ripping his shirt off and flinging it into the water as he did.
Two powerful statues, silhouetted against the night sky. Two outlaw rebels.
Basho crossed his hands in an "X"; I slashed a thumb across my throat.
The knees went first. Became rubbery noodles unable to support my body. My hands blocked me from falling face first. Without even trying, we were doing the same gestures our father's always did after winning a match. The roar, everything...
We'd gone across an ocean to escape them...and there they were. Inside of us. Was I standing defiant against tradition...or was I running from it? Suddenly I didn't know.
"Get up. Get up and fight my son," his voice whispered in my ear.