Igor The Bear

Diary

Igor The Bear does not fall asleep so much as settle, like a mountain deciding to sit down, and in his family's home he dreamed the old dream of glory, katana raised, banners snapping, before the floor rose up and introduced itself to his face. He woke with fewer teeth and no memory of the fall, only the dull throb where discipline used to live, and a small proud grin that made the gaps look intentional, like battle scars from a war only he attended. His grandfather kept that house standing through worse than gravity, and Igor tells himself the missing teeth are tribute, not tragedy, the same way he tells himself smoking that last bowl of weed before training counts as meditation. Every morning he vows to rebuild the discipline he rugged himself out of years ago, one slow stretch, one sober breath, and every morning the couch's floor wins the negotiation before lunch. Still he walks around proud, jaw crooked, chest out, moving like a debt collector who forgot what he came to collect, immovable, unbothered, dreaming again the moment he sits still long enough.