| Legends of the Fall Her words pierced me, the way the lone light of a flickering candle burning down to its last breath cracks through the shadow of darkness that threatens to consume it. She brought with her a hope long forgotten and the promise since forsaken. She held within her the snow-covered strawberry fields and the rain-kissed roses of days long gone and lives since passed. Tears streamed down the soft silhouette of her pretty face. She bit her lips with the tenderness of an infant crying out in night. She smiled, even now, she still smiled. There’s a quiet strength within her small body that’s so intriguing. She always reminded me of Christmas mornings, of Valentine days, of Summer nights. She felt like someone I always knew, but never known. She took me to the place that I cannot remember, that I cannot forget. We were ages apart and soon to be worlds away. I was too close to stay, too far to leave. Somewhere between all that was and all that is yet to be. My entire body trembled as the emotions flooded out, like a screaming stream past a silent dam. The walls came crumbling down. And I had come undone. I made a promise to myself, seven years ago, that I never should have kept. Sitting in that little cell, staring into the cold, white, windowless walls, crying until no more tears came out, I prayed for the last prayer of my life. I asked for forgiveness, for salvation, for redemption. I begged for mercy, for grace, for love. All I wanted was a sign. Something. Anything. As the sirens roared and the ambulance neared, I realized that no one was going to answer. There would be no savior for this cursed sinner. All the hope and dreams of my childhood drained out from me as the darkness set in. In the shadows of the twilight, I swore to become everything that I would ever need. I vowed to never let anyone into my heart until that happened. I made a promise to myself that if I did not achieve that in seven years, I would send myself to the hell that I was meant to be in. Hell, to me, is not so much a matter of a damned life after death, but the chaos, the depravity, and the hopelessness, of dying while still being alive. It is the nightmare of opening your eyes to a world you did not create, to a life you did not make, to a path you did not choose. It is the pain of being the very person you hate the most. It is the emptiness of not knowing what love is, of not feeling what passion means, of not being all you can be. The greatest tragedy of life is not dying, but never living. We all must face death someday, and it is how we face that inevitable fate, with fear and regret, or with courage and peace, that tells how we had lived. All the hard times we go through in life are preparations for the last test of dying, of becoming a man. The way we die determines how well we actually practiced everything we lived for. If we die as cowards, then everything we ever loved, everything we ever stood for, everything we ever fought for, is lost. If you can keep your heart when everyone around you is losing theirs, if you can believe when there is no faith, if you can fight when there is no hope, then it does not matter if you win or lose, because you did all you could with all you had. You kept your strength and honor, and you died as a man. And there’s no better death than that. As the doors opened and the police escorts entered in, I, with fists tightly clinched and eyes wide-opened, made a pact with myself that I would do whatever it took to become a man. I had nothing else but an intense desire and indomitable will to become a champion. I had hit rock bottom. There was nothing more to lose and I had nothing left. In that emptiness of complete hopelessness, I found freedom. This was my first near-life experience. I was willing to die to live that dream, even for just a moment. Ever since I can remember, whenever I thought about the word champion, only one image came to mind. I always saw the proud fighter, covered in blood, sweat, and tears, standing victorious over the ropes, holding his belt in one hand and pointing to the roaring crowd with the other, as the glorious lights, flashing screens, and deafening chants of the stadium shines on him. And him alone. To me, that was salvation. The warrior who fights the battles beyond endurance, beyond power, beyond heart, to go after a dream that nobody sees but himself, is a dying breed in this era of buying in and selling out, of falling down and giving up, of sacrificing too much and risking too little. This is the age of outer fulfillment but inner emptiness, of illusionary heights but missing depths, of open brightness but hidden darkness. It’s a rare act of courage to deny one self the normal pleasures of life that everyone enjoys, to preserve under the most grueling struggles that break most men’s will, to fight on when there’s nothing more to take and nothing left to give. To me, that was redemption. Fighting is war fought within the deepest depths of one’s soul. It’s a beautiful dance between the heart and mind, a tragic tango between the body and spirit, a majestic meditation on life and death. The best fighters are not the ones who can defeat everyone else; rather, the true warriors are the ones who have conquered their fears and mastered their fate. They are the ones who dared to dream with eyes wide open. To me, that was vindication. Fighting holds within it a strange immobility of an ancient race that’s hardly seen in our present days. It’s one of the last surviving rituals that connect us to our last nature, to our first ancestors, to our highest instincts, and to our deepest selves. Fighting is primal, pristine, and pure. It is raw and real. It’s the lion before the kill; the lighting before the storm, the spark before the blaze. It’s the ripples of the waves, the raindrops of the seas, the shadows of the night. It’s the first breath of a spring, the last breath of winter, and all that in between. Everyday I trained, I was finding out something about myself… |
