Warrior

Long ago, when I was still unshaped clay, my father called me and my brother before him. His eyes carried storms, and his voice split the air like thunder. He asked:

“Are you soldiers… or warriors?”

We were young. We did not yet understand the weight of his words. Soldiers march to another man’s drum. They follow the chain of command, blind to the truth of their own hearts.

But warriors — ah, warriors carry their beliefs like fire in their bones. They fight not because they are told, but because the cause within them leaves no choice.

At thirteen, I did not yet grasp this. I thought the name was enough. That to be called a warrior made me one, but names are only masks. The true self is forged in choice.

Years later, in the exile of my own making, I came to see it. Alone in a strange city, I followed a path that was not mine. My spirit starved. My purpose withered. Until the day I turned my back on it. I walked away. I chose myself.

That was the moment I crossed the threshold. That was the moment I ceased to be clay and became the blade. Not because I was commanded, but because I believed.

The world calls it selfish. The weak call it reckless. But a warrior knows: it is neither. It is truth.

Bruce Lee once said: “Art is an expression of life and transcends both time and space. We must employ our own souls through art to give new form and a new meaning to nature or the world.”

So I say to you now:
I am a warrior.
I am an artist.
I am a warrior of art.