Stresshead Rin

Diary

Rin arrived at Kiyomizu-Dera forty minutes early, as he does everywhere, having already rehearsed the prayer nine times and mapped three exits in case the temple bell signaled some prophecy he wasn't prepared for. Somewhere between bowing and whispering his ask for clarity about the future, a stray consonant became a small mist of spit that landed, with tragic accuracy, on the shoulder of a stranger who had simply come to admire the wooden platform in peace. He apologized so many times and so fast that the man began nodding just to make it stop, and Rin walked away convinced this was a sign, though he could not decide if the sign meant floor is in or rugpull incoming, because every omen these days reads like both. Once he carried a blade with a steady hand and a stiller mind, and now that same vigilance rattles around inside him with nothing to guard but his crypto wallet and his own spiraling thoughts at 3 a.m. He still tries to meditate each morning for discipline's sake, gets through four breaths, then spends the rest of the session Googling whether spitting on a stranger during prayer voids the prayer, the temple, or possibly his whole future.