Lament of a warrior killer

Do you believe in the possibility that you have lived past lives? Each and every one of us has gone through a stage in life where we find ourselves confused, and we wonder why it is that we can see things so clearly, in our own way. We hear, see, and we feel, plus a few other senses, and yet all those senses at times seem only serve to isolate us from those around.

I don't believe in past lives, and yet there is a part of me that thinks he's lived too many as a warrior. This warrior, or should I write his spirit, was quite successful at his trade, and he lived many lives in the way of the killer. He did his deed at the command of his masters, and although he's lived so many times before, he cannot ever remember being a master himself. He cannot even remember being one of the commanders of his master's fighters. Still, he does remember being one of the best at fighting, and the one his masters turned to the most, even if he so often despised the things he and his fellow fighters were ordered to do. I don't know if he died fighting, or of old age, so many times over.

He sits here now, at times puzzled. Why is it that he does not care to enter the fray? It's not for fear, for deep down he knows that if he were to do so, he would most surely survive. If he is wrong, then death is but the way of the fighter. It's a new skin, and he's not too worried for scarring it, right then.

His wonder at the birds in the trees outside his window is briefly distracted when the cat, purring in his lap stirs and also notices the winged things. "You too are are quite the efficient killer," he thinks to himself. He strokes behind the cat's ears, but it's eyes remain focused on the birds. "You definitely are the perfect killer, but you have not learned to kill for food since you are fat and comfortable with the food you are brought. You have not learned to kill for any cause other than your enjoyment."

A cat, who has not been taught by it's mother that prey is food will indeed still kill, but not intentionally. The cat will play with its prey until the sorry thing dies during the game, or the cat herself tires of the game and walks away, leaving the toy to it's slow death. But wait a minute! I should not imply that the cat is dishonourable in it's habit. It only does what it knows, and knows best.

The warrior again looks out his window at the trees, and now at the street, and the children playing with their bicycles. At other times the boys cross sticks as swords, or pummel blades of grass into abject submission. The warrior smiles, briefly, and then contemplates if this is where it starts. Is it natural, and just the way of things, or do they learn from the things they see.

It's been such a long time, and no time at all. Why can he not enter the fray? Why does he try so hard to avoid conflict where he can? Why is it so difficult to understand, from time to time? I digress, and it's been a good life. So tell me! Carpenter. Teacher. Nurse? To cleanse the past, what should I do next?