a partial mind; newt series
Jan 18, 2018 15:33:30 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Jan 18, 2018 15:33:30 GMT -5
[presto]
[/presto]► ► ►
I watch the sea with nothing but smoke in my lungs and bruises along my skin, one for each target missed and underestimation of the opponent before me. I lost count at thirty, because when spotting flaws and brooding on losses begin to correlate letters that spell failure the only logical thing to do is stop. Each bruise slurred into a wave of downgrades and descriptions, one of double magnitude than the next.
The tenth began to spell idiot. Idiot for forgetting I have a new blind spot and letting the marks creep into double digits. And there was truth to be found in those, because as each welt on my form began to morph into a bruise, it was only a reminder that if it was the real thing, I could be bleeding not bruising. I would be dying, not crying. By the tenth bruise I could see the letters that correlated to the term 'idiot' and I wondered if I'd ever strike true.
The fifteenth bruise began to spell soft. Too soft for begging my opponent to let me rest and have a drink of water. The wooden spear in my hand grew heavy and blisters formed across my calloused palm. I wanted a reprise and the moment I allowed those words to leave me mouth at bruise number fifteen I began to spot the damn issue at hand, I was too soft. Never having the stomach for glory and gore when I was eight while never having the stomach for cruelty at seventeen. I was no Someith Krearns, never had and never will be -- too soft because I was discouraged when my spear did not strike true.
Bruise number twenty two correlated letters to spell sloppy. Sloppy for not holding my guard rigid enough to withstand the power of a titan. Sloppy for my lazy swing and hitting nothing but air and not thinking to correct myself before he left a bruise along my stomach. In the back of my mind, I counted bruise number twenty two and saw sloppy, a scolding my trainer could've given me and my father would've sneered at. Wrinkling his nose at the son who could never break ships like they were bones and strike at people like he was thunder.
Bruise number twenty six and between blurring vision and red spatter, I could make out the word weak. Weak for my fragility at dealing with the pressure of the skilled and biting back tears. It required a sidestep from my lazy thrust at his throat and then a simply stroke to leave a mark along my back, something that would've been a gash to severed spinal chord and life had it been the real thing. I halted my velocity with the point of my make-shift weapon and bit my lip to bite back tears. W e a k and there's no denial in my lips.
It must've been lost somewhere between the surface of air and the bottom of the sea.
Bruise number twenty eight and hopeless was the next presumed definition chained around my throat. Because the first twenty seven bruises remained in the realm of forgivable, but come the twenty eighth missed target and slip-up it becomes the glaringly obvious question of not when I'll improve but if I'll improve. And with a definition comes a presumption and at least fifty percent of the time, that presumption is no. It becomes a matter of which bone I'll break next, which part of myself I'll lose to the void of a partial existence and if I'll stop falling through this void of pointless existence.
What worth could possibly come with this partial existence of mine?
The loss of function came with bruise twenty nine and bruise thirty had me on me on my knees. And before I could cross the f and dot the i, I dropped my spear and found myself face down before the 'failure' could sink in. That's when you stop and raise your white flag, not carry your banner in the hopes you'll defy fate and get better. He flaunted his superiority over my black and blue body that may as well be a corpse. A more successful man, a smarter man and a better one with a complex to boot.
The common man articulates that fate is a cruel mistress.
Not that I ever believed in such a thing, it would be cruel to let an arbitrary force decide who was a better man than who. No, my father drilled in the values of personal responsibility and those who were never good enough had only themselves to blame -- I only have myself to blame. The loss of function, the wasted effort of failure; it's all my fault.
Sea water and smoke; I tremble at the sound of Poseidon's call but ignore the temptation. I'm worth more, remember? I don't have to break when I fail and I don't have to splinter when I split. My hands tremble as I resist the urge to dig into my eye patch and scratch the phantom itch in my empty eye socket. The memory of drowning twice becomes more apparent as I inhale chemical rage and exhale relief.
I throw the stump of my cigarette into the sand and wonder if I'll ever live past bruise number thirty.
The tenth began to spell idiot. Idiot for forgetting I have a new blind spot and letting the marks creep into double digits. And there was truth to be found in those, because as each welt on my form began to morph into a bruise, it was only a reminder that if it was the real thing, I could be bleeding not bruising. I would be dying, not crying. By the tenth bruise I could see the letters that correlated to the term 'idiot' and I wondered if I'd ever strike true.
The fifteenth bruise began to spell soft. Too soft for begging my opponent to let me rest and have a drink of water. The wooden spear in my hand grew heavy and blisters formed across my calloused palm. I wanted a reprise and the moment I allowed those words to leave me mouth at bruise number fifteen I began to spot the damn issue at hand, I was too soft. Never having the stomach for glory and gore when I was eight while never having the stomach for cruelty at seventeen. I was no Someith Krearns, never had and never will be -- too soft because I was discouraged when my spear did not strike true.
Bruise number twenty two correlated letters to spell sloppy. Sloppy for not holding my guard rigid enough to withstand the power of a titan. Sloppy for my lazy swing and hitting nothing but air and not thinking to correct myself before he left a bruise along my stomach. In the back of my mind, I counted bruise number twenty two and saw sloppy, a scolding my trainer could've given me and my father would've sneered at. Wrinkling his nose at the son who could never break ships like they were bones and strike at people like he was thunder.
Bruise number twenty six and between blurring vision and red spatter, I could make out the word weak. Weak for my fragility at dealing with the pressure of the skilled and biting back tears. It required a sidestep from my lazy thrust at his throat and then a simply stroke to leave a mark along my back, something that would've been a gash to severed spinal chord and life had it been the real thing. I halted my velocity with the point of my make-shift weapon and bit my lip to bite back tears. W e a k and there's no denial in my lips.
("Newt, you're strong. Remember that.")
It must've been lost somewhere between the surface of air and the bottom of the sea.
Bruise number twenty eight and hopeless was the next presumed definition chained around my throat. Because the first twenty seven bruises remained in the realm of forgivable, but come the twenty eighth missed target and slip-up it becomes the glaringly obvious question of not when I'll improve but if I'll improve. And with a definition comes a presumption and at least fifty percent of the time, that presumption is no. It becomes a matter of which bone I'll break next, which part of myself I'll lose to the void of a partial existence and if I'll stop falling through this void of pointless existence.
What worth could possibly come with this partial existence of mine?
The loss of function came with bruise twenty nine and bruise thirty had me on me on my knees. And before I could cross the f and dot the i, I dropped my spear and found myself face down before the 'failure' could sink in. That's when you stop and raise your white flag, not carry your banner in the hopes you'll defy fate and get better. He flaunted his superiority over my black and blue body that may as well be a corpse. A more successful man, a smarter man and a better one with a complex to boot.
("Congratulations on trying."
"But better luck next time."
"It's not the end of the world.")
"But better luck next time."
"It's not the end of the world.")
The common man articulates that fate is a cruel mistress.
Not that I ever believed in such a thing, it would be cruel to let an arbitrary force decide who was a better man than who. No, my father drilled in the values of personal responsibility and those who were never good enough had only themselves to blame -- I only have myself to blame. The loss of function, the wasted effort of failure; it's all my fault.
Sea water and smoke; I tremble at the sound of Poseidon's call but ignore the temptation. I'm worth more, remember? I don't have to break when I fail and I don't have to splinter when I split. My hands tremble as I resist the urge to dig into my eye patch and scratch the phantom itch in my empty eye socket. The memory of drowning twice becomes more apparent as I inhale chemical rage and exhale relief.
I throw the stump of my cigarette into the sand and wonder if I'll ever live past bruise number thirty.
--
{ could heaven ever be like this }
{ could heaven ever be like this }
