raised by wolves

It is dusk here, and the sun filtering through the dying branches of trees in autumn reminds me of fields of golden flax and grain, a memory I didn’t know I had. I look up at the sky through the trees. Behind my mask, I smile.
The temple is multileveled and very wide, like something right out of a Hong Kong action movie. The only door of the strange, angular temple is a yawning mouth with nothing visible immediately beyond the threshold.
There is a sound of a gong, which is remarkably similar to the sound of the dumpster I sliced apart. There is movement inside the temple. A line of monks with their heads bowed appears, all of them silently staring at their feet. They line up on either side of me, standing with their heads bowed and hands folded in silent prayer or meditation.
There is once more the sound of a gong. I remain seated on the steps, facing the empty doorway of the temple. The monks pray vigorously.
From the dark portal in the temple emerges an ancient wisp of a man, a man who looks made of papyrus more than flesh. He wears a black robe over his monk’s vestments. His hair is long and white and sticks off the back of his head in a long, unruly ponytail. He has a thin wispy mustache to go along with his thin wispy body and hair.
He speaks the words from my dream.
I am held captive. My mind races like a combustion engine behind my forehead. I cannot understand.
But then something happens, and it’s all clear to me. I feel a great lightness, as though I might float away and never return to the ground. I can’t explain it, but it brings me such peace and inner calm. Enlightenment. It is embodied in the sword in my hand, and the swift, righteous justice that it bestows on me.
The old man releases the sword from his gnarled claws and I hold it in my hands. It gleams brilliantly in the sunlight, flashing blindingly, making you squint. I put the sword into the scabbard at my side, and behind my samurai mask, I close my eyes and exhale. Peace.