[Dream] [Week 21, Day 7] The Right to Worry About the Future
There is an incessant rattling, clopping, and creaking. Wood and hooves clattering their way down a street of dirt and stone as the darkness of an empty mind gives way to the wash of blue sky and the palette of greens and browns that create the scene of Japanese street. Old to some of you. Perhaps newer to others.
With white walls roofed with dusty tile, the scene flows despite the jerking carriage ambling its way closer.
And in an instant you are lifted, poised instead above the scene, overlooking, and waiting.
Sandals of wicker easily resting on the breadth of a low hanging branch, and blue hakama bound up against the knees so the pants can’t flow and catch, you come to some self-awareness as a young boy of small stature, lean and light. The smooth hilt of a blade rests in his palm. Nothing so heavy as a sword. But small, concealable, and manageable for this particular task. But there is no hint of worry. No fear. No hesitation. This is a science now. No, an art. And the artist wears only a lazy smile as he slowly crouches, takes in a deep breath, and then seemingly disappears in a leap so fast the only hint of his existence is the light quivering of the leaves in his wake.
The screen blurs and swirls as if caught up in a gust of wind falling and flowing with the boy’s course without being able to see any part of him. Not even shadow.
And in an instant the scene all changes, inside the carriage now, still galloping along, as the door is flung open, and that boy, smile ever present on his face leans in and looks you in the eye.
Then unsheathing the knife gripped steadily in his hand he holds it up before the bridge of your nose. And his lips, stretched cheerfully across his pearly white teeth, part to form words:
“The dead don’t need to worry about the future.”
Red splatters across the screen and in the same god-like speed with which he had come, the boy is gone, the carriage door closed, and the driver none the wiser, speeding on his horses unaware of the corpse in tow.
The boy, however, knife now tucked away, smiles as he finds himself on the street, walking shoulder to shoulder with the everyday crowd. His hands he keeps slipped into his sleeves to conceal the sticky red still dirtying his fingertips, but even so he brightly chirps ‘good morning’ to a young woman blushing at his delicate face. She quickly hides her face bashfully and he chuckles.
The daily tide of farmers, merchants, housewives, and children carry him off towards the rise of forest in the distance.
[Soujiro doesn't wake. His head just slowly tips to one side and falls against his shoulder as he proceeds to sleep at peace in the arms of a large oak.]