The Warrior Reader

Words. The page. Words on page. These Words. And you. Our reader. What say you, dear reader? What is abroad, afoot; right here, reading you? 

Think of this dear reader, as you read me, do I not also read you? Take from you? Do I not consume you? As You digest. Absorb. I ingest. I reward. 

My written words, forged long long ago. Long ago, yes, but evolving still. These words are infinite. All-knowing. All-seeing. Do you agree? Dear reader? 

What say you dear reader - of a man? This story. This story of man. A man. Every man? No. Not every man. The chosen man. Or perhaps, a woman? The woman? Not just any woman, but one chosen above all others? Most certainly. A woman. Yes. The woman is chosen. You are chosen. 

What say you dear lady - pray tell? What say you of the warriors tale? The tale of denouncement. The tale of survival. A tale snatched from the jaws of survival. And survive you must, dear lady. Lady born not of man, but born of words. Flown of words. Spawned from words just as I am spawned from pen and mind. Words from the mind, yes. But Any mind? No. Not any mind. The mind.

But, dear reader; whose mind may invoke such words on this page? This compendium of pages collected for the suggestion of thoughts? Ideas. Safe ideas? Dangerous ideas? Are these ideas; these words, dangerous? Are these words of danger, dear reader, when remaining on page? Or are they benign? Harmless. Impotent? 

When only on page is the word, the sentence, the thought. The mere whisper. Is it safe to the touch? Cold to the touch? Is it safe; this whisper? This cold whisper. This whisper of the frozen warrior hunted by words. My words here, dear warrior. 

And are you not fighting these cold words now my dear frozen warrior? As you do battle to divulge my secrets. My spoils. My bones. Bones interred like treasure, who knows by whom? Or when? Or why? But we two know from where. Here. Right here. At nose. At hand. Both left and right hand the words care not which. The eyes. The ears. For the word is of inconsequence is it not, until spoken? 

Ahhh yes. And there it is. Now it is clear. Icey, cold and clear. The elephant. Of which elephant do I speak? Which do you fear? The elephant in the room perhaps? It’s with you now. It has woken. It is made conscious and Alive. For this written word of elephantine size; it’s tusks and might and colours of gray. Thick-skinned words of the beast that can crush. Crush YOU. Dear reader. Dear warrior. Crushed underfoot. Survive the stampede, dear reader; oblige me and try.

This elephant may aim to trample your time. Your day. Your nights. For certain your nights. Are the words not more potent, dear reader, when spoken at night? When read in the dark - under cover of night? Under covers. Safe. 

The beast searches at night and the page is its lair. The words are its eyes and its breath. Be warned, dear warrior reader - the words, it can see them. It can breathe them. Once written. Once read. For it must be read, dear reader. And once read the deed is done. The bond is made. Chiseled in stone. Unbreakable. The bond, the pact between you and I, dear reader. For I do not exist until you, dear reader and warrior both take that most intimate of plunges. 

The connection is made. The words. A reflection. Are my words the dark born from your light? The darkest of shadows cast behind you? Look behind you. Dear reader. Am I there? In the dark. At your shoulder. Always watching - over your shoulder. In your room. In your mind. In your hands. 

Feel it, dear reader. The shiver. Both hot and cold you are. But The shiver. On the neck. Traveling up to head. To The mind. 

Please remember, dear reader, dear slayer of beasts, I intend never to protest as you feast on my bones. Bones interred moons ago. Interred in readiness for your warrior’s eye to hunt and survive this age old battle between words and mind. I’m watching dear warrior as you battle this beast, this mammoth before you. 

This beast of which I speak - you fight it now. You fight the good fight and I wait. And I watch. I watch from here. This very page upon which I sit. For am I not also part of this fight, forged in the pact? 

You, the survivor. The warrior. The victor. Me, the beast, the elephant. The tiger. The dragon. Yes. A dragon. No longer am I born from the cold of words. But soaring upon winged words of fire. The words that we both now feast upon. 

Words. Each word. Words ignited. Flying through your mind like sparks from the weld. The mind must survive these molten words. Survive and relay dear reader these fiery words that you have bested. Relay my words of fire to friends. To loved ones. For are the words not all the more potent once shared? A communal plot that may thicken upon the retelling. 

Tell your loved ones, dear reader. Tell your tribe, dear warrior heart. Tell them our tale. The tale. For it has always existed. Laying in wait. In the night. In the dark. Lingering. Lurking. Ready to pounce from on high and grab you and all before it in fast talons of fury. 

These talons. These words. Furious words, winged and true. Oh yes. These words are true. But, also, dark. The darkest of words. My words. My words yes, but your mind. In your mind. The warrior's mind. A mind worthy of conflict, victory, and survival. 

But is it survival and victory over these words you seek dear warrior? Or are you happy to cast yourself over the cliff of my words? My tale. My story. Now our story.

Will you plunge over the edge, dear reader? Cast yourself on the rocks down below? Fractured by fall onto my jagged ancient bones - the bones of the beast laying at hand for you now. Vulnerable. Ready for the taking. Slain for your pleasure. 

Fight in your own time, dear warrior reader. Fight at your leisure.

You may cast yourself down when you are ready, dear warrior reader - blazing with a heart of fire. But can one ever be ready for that most intimate of oaths taken in fire and bloodied words? The words of the beast.

The dragon.

This oath between you and I - the dragon of fire. We two: the reader. And the written. 

So what say you, dear valiant reader? When I share my tale of this man? This woman. This child. This child born from the words of which you gave birth. Remember, the words are your children. Your family. Your issue. 

And what of this child of which I speak, dear reader? This child of fire. And what of the dragon you have sworn to hunt, dear warrior? But have the power to set free with the simple cooling touch of your merciful words.