Allowing my mind to wrap itself up in some ungodly fury, I grant myself the need to drop myself to that level of demonic manifestation, to exorcize my sisters fragile soul and my mothers house of this dark nature that invites itself in and then calls it its abode. A further study of the greatest virtues; the noble eightfold path, as my hands form a fist and fist moves to face, I am reminded of just how utterly weak it is. No strength is in this striking palm as it connects. Karma casts all my martial training into use, but at what cost? I am slapped by 75 of Kannons hands that all sound out guilt upon impact, In control of the situation when the virtuous true strength emerges. Compassion, acceptance, my Bodhisattva-nature floods out in apology, that holds both the hand of my enemy and my victim, and sees neither, just another sentient being engaged in the mental contamination that produces suffering. I do not even hear my sisters tears as they echo up the air-vents and leave me awake, night after night. My sword of innumerable virtue, lives dormant in its sheath, dying to strike out at this pathetic existence cowering before me, truly ignorant to the enlightenment that I’ve dealt swelling on his face. With reality, too real, brings him anxiety and nervous fits, screaming of being half-dead where I have expounded life in its purest sense. I should be thanked as I wipe the blood away from the blade. This violence eats away at the merits of this rebirth, and I am the one who has to deal with the karma of winning. Threatening me that he will take his own life, if he can’t take my sisters hand, should I offer a smoother ride by testing out the sharpness in this virtuous steel? The limits of both true strength and weakness are expanded, and I adorn my sword a Buddha name, Musū no bitoku no ken, and carry on as a ronin, surrounded, praised and cursed by my sisters love.