Junichiro Reborn

Diary

Junichiro Reborn broke his finger arranging his thoughts at the Fight Pits, which is the sort of sentence that only makes sense once you have already died and come back with opinions about it. He tells it now like a koan he is still workshopping, the bone snapping cleanly right as the thought finally sat still, as if enlightenment charges a small deposit and takes it out of your pinky. Since then he has devoted himself to Buddha with the intensity of a man who ODed on chaos in a past life and is trying not to relapse, meditating each dawn at Ryoan-ji until his knees scream louder than his old war cries ever did. Discipline was supposed to be the whole point of the second act, and yet the incense keeps going out, the sutras keep blurring into betting odds, and somewhere around minute four his mind is back at the Pits, rearranging thoughts, aching to break something else just to feel it click into place. He smiles anyway, finger in a splint shaped vaguely like a mudra, insisting that samsara and the Fight Pits are basically the same wheel, and that at least this time he is losing on purpose.