Sunday, November 27, 2022

The 10th Round


There is a point at which all things seem surreal.  This point is painted in the mind, it comes from the breath, and can be found on the ceiling of the arena that pairs of warriors prove themselves to each other, a crowd of watchers, and a world of fans who scream names in unison, chanting rhythmically while one of the combatants shows signs of dying before the crowd.  

Well into this point the atmosphere gets thick.  It becomes warm and viscous, it becomes physical air like breathing liquid. You've become a fish out of water.  

The mind reals.  Only thoughts of survival come in.  And out of the mind comes a primordial scream. One so Loud that it can't be heard, but the stars and planets move with it.  For a moment fear grips the mind, but training stops them from cringing and keeps them on moving feet. Then the sound of a whirlwind comes and takes them away. 

A blinding fire pierces the eyes.  Pain so great that breathing is impossible, but has to be done.  Don't stop moving, don't stop moving, strike back once more and win.  

Grab, hold on tight, squeeze, don't let go.  Is that a tap?  I felt something, don't let go...

All is Black, wait he's holding up my arm.

Peace and Balance,


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