The monk knows only chaos. But he meditates. His soul races. Yet he has stilled his breath and heart and brain. His tranquility is threatened. He doubts he will ever know peace. This wish complicates his existence. It’s a desire. He cannot let his want go. He fears never being able to attain greatness because of it. Then he tries harder and his frustration grows making the distance longer down the road he travels.
At the end of several hours he is even farther from his destination.
He can’t help being aware his goal of attaining greatness is what holds him back.
The monk knows he strays far from the path to enlightenment because of it. He hates that some of his brothers are so far ahead of him doing things he could only dream of doing.
He hates them for it. He hates life for being too hard. He hates himself for being weak.
Out of frustration he slams his head against the grey stone ground and again and again. Tears of frustration pour from his eyes. He lets a guttural scream loose that leaves his throat raw. Blood drips into his eyes. He thinks maybe he opened a vicious cut on his brow with one of the blows to the ground. He reaches up and finds it and tears at the wound reveling in the pain. Blood drips spalshing on the brick under him. The blood droplets look like a stern face glaring back at him. The splotched visage makes him think of the God of envy. He smiles and whispers a sarcastic prayer to Erythnul, “Oh God of envy and slaughter I would gladly kill for you if you grant me the way of tranquility.”
The lips on the dripped blood face spread into a wicked smile, “oh would you now?”
Stories 