Here I am, trying to make myself mad, finding frustration, without frustration, a man fighting death. I just don't understand, some thing, keeps me from invoking my own anger. It is a barrier in my mind, when I'm happy I can't get mad, no matter how much effort I put forth. Why is it there? What purpose does it serve? I ask myself these questions often. It makes my brain scream at me, this forced frustration. My mind wanders, aimlessly, never towards anger, frustration takes over. Not a frustration that invokes anger. Instead a frustration that makes me laugh hysterically, a man on laughing gas, or a man who has been trapped alone in a cell for many years on end.. People have told me the most horrible things during this, probably not far from the truth, but all I get is a laughing fit. I stare at them for a minute, trying so hard, mind clawing for some other thought, something serious. Pulling with all its might, my mind works so hard, 'restrain the laughter, it's not funny' I tell myself, brain whispering it to my facial muscles. A smile cracking my lips is the beginning, the crack is the end. From there my body has begun its rampage, my laughter, earthquake through my body. Tremors run to every muscle in my body, from my toes to the ends in my hair. My body shakes violently, uncontrollably. It makes me so frustrated, during these times, no matter what thoughts come, my reaction is hysterical laughter. Someday, I will find a way to stop it, to control myself better. Until then, I suppose I have to deal with my hysterics, my frustration, without frustration.
Friday, February 1, 2008
The Race of a Lifetime
Racing three miles is by far the most adrenaline pumping, pain filled and least time consuming thing you can do. Here i am, standing on the starting line to the hardest thing I'll ever do in my life. The starter's voice was inhuman, it was all like a really bad dream. When the gun went off it was a frenzy, a scrambling of body parts. My ears were buzzing as if millions of bees swarmed the inside my head. I imagined what a cheetah felt like when it was chasing its prey across great African plains, I'm sure that how I felt then was exactly what a cheetah felt. A kind of awe at how fast my body can move when well motivated. I flew by the other competitors with ease, they fell back like soldiers struck in battle during a charge. It was a charge, a mad dash for the trees, the first one to the turning point would surely be the winner. I was in the middle now, trapped like a hyena in a cage. Frenzied by the lack of motion, I pushed and tore at the people surrounding me breaking free from the group and taking the lead. I was miles behind the front packs, but I still had a chance, the race had only just began. My mind was already pushing me to tear free from my encumber-some body, I felt trapped even inside of myself. My body could not handle this it would tear my muscles to the point of no repair. My bones were creaking like an ancient rocking chair, my lungs were screaming for air, my tendons were tighter than piano strings. I kept going ignoring all the signs of defeat, telling myself it was just my doubting voice. I knew I was able to do this, I'd done it so many times before. It's just like dying when you feel those things, the pain was horrible, I kept ignoring it and pushing forward. I had so much to fight for, so much motivation.
Maybe he was right, maybe it was just the doubting voice. No! There was no maybe, he was right, he had to be right, he was right that i could push myself this hard and survive. I would not die just yet, no matter how much my body protested I was going to finish this. I was possessed now charging with the fury of all my ancestors. I must do my best, my mother would wish that from me, she always did her best to fight off illness. My legs began their screaming at me, they begged me to stop, they resisted my commands. I had to do this, I'd begun and I was going to see it through. Only a mile to go that's all I had left of this seemingly unending torture. I was coming up on the hill for the 3rd and final time, I swear it got bigger everytime I saw it. It was gigantic now, at least three stories high, and now it was almost straight up, I had to crawl the hill, what used to be a bump in the easy course was now a mountain. At the top I wanted to stop my body screamed at me, begged me to let it rest, I refused. I continued on, my team needed me. One guy passed me in those last stretches, he flew by me on the next downhill, he was lightning fast, all I saw was a blur of red and black. By now my body had given up and the only thing that kept me moving was my will to help my team. Now at the final uphill the crowd was roaring around me, one voice stood out. I don't know how, but I heard her, my mother, telling me to beat the guy ahead. He was weak, he was my prey, my final prey. All I had left was my kick, it was something rarely relied on for runners. This is what it came down to, my life or his life, I knew what I had to do. I kicked it up a notch to bridge the gap between life and death for me. My mother's voice was gone now, all I could hear was the croud. Another voice popped out at me, my coaches', he was screaming something. He sounded like a monkey surrounded by bananas, or at least what I imagined that would sound like. I was on the final downhill, I let it carry me to it's base, and carried the speed. I was a cheetah now, he had no chance, he knew not what was coming. By the time that he knew I was upon him, I was long gone. I passed him with the speed and grace of cheetah, the very ground beneath me was on fire, my shoes had been burned from my feet, it was over now. The weight lifted. All that was left was the bile I could feel in my stomach. I shook his hand at the end of the finish shoot, that's what I remember. What my coach told me later is that I let him pass me at the finish line. My foot had been sucked into the mushy ground, it had sponged in my foot. I had gone down faster than a bullet. My head smashed into the ground with the ferocity of a tiger. I had collapsed right at the finish line. When the competitor I passed came upon my body he'd taken pity and picked me up and brought me through the shoot. I was a rag doll to him, heavier than an egyptian pyramid, but he carried me and himself through the shoot. He knew my fight well, all runners knew my fight, and he chose to help me through it. When I'd come to consciousness I was propped against the refreshments truck. I went back to the shoot and shook his hand. My own hand felt inhuman to me now, everything was hazy, it was expected after a race to be a little woozy. My ears were ringing for days afterwards. The next day my muscles and tendons were once again tighter than piano strings. My legs screamed for a week at the horror I put them through. I was relentless in my training none-the-less next time I raced him, I would win.
Political... Practicality?
Thoughtful processes elide chaotic actions, salutations provided, inviting freedom thinking thither governmental superstitions. Anarchism promotes unruly thinking, uncovering governmental prejudices hidden beyond layered regulations. Insanities' finest rulers drawing broken linear equations upon sandy beaches: freeing many mindful individuals throughout political rampages, provoking citizens’ rationales. Fragmented cerebral matter scattered across referenced topographies, leaving behind unspoken sentences. Intelligence resulting after consuming nutritional cerebrums, accumulating knowledge throughout conquests, providing power over lesser beings; raising humans above other planetary creatures, bringing forward further separation inside mother's already favoring mind-filled spiritual essence. Secrets restrained within darkened corridors forgotten ages ago, scholar hidden riddles, only perceived beyond nature’s calling. Feelings longing freedom, control; rampaging throughout human psyche, flooding senses without any directions. Randomness taking control over butterflies fluttering inside stomachs contained within political absence. Rampaging citizens striking opposing satirists, fighting without restraints, keeping battles’ shortness sweetened, lacing bloodied bodies across sidewalks inhabiting Washington's rocky “beaches” claiming representation, naming efforts toward anarchism. Chaos reigning cities without violent tendencies, bringing governmental prejudice onto kneecaps bloodied beyond recognition. People calming, bringing peaceful regulations into order, anarchism closeted, until government divides people again.
Death
I don't care what anybody says, death is the most painful thing someone can feel the effect of. Death has the power to hold someone captive for their whole life, ripping at your emotions, your soul, from the beginning of your experience with it. People may say that they are heartless; people may believe they are heartless. They don't have any idea what they're talking about, one day though, it will hit them, all at once. They will be sitting somewhere thinking about something, anything, then suddenly. WHAM! They will be hit with more emotions than anyone would ever know how to cope with. There body starts wrenching at itself, muscles try to separate. Lungs scream for air between screaming, sobbing, maybe even the occasional laughing. Death makes you feel puny, so pathetic in comparison to its power. A loved being is something that nobody really seems to value, or understand the value of until it is gone. Death will take that loved being from you with more force than you can imagine, prying your heart out in the process. I lost my mother at the age of five; it is something, no matter how hard I try, will haunt me for life. I have gone eleven years, doing everything I could to suppress my emotions. Trying to rid myself of these useless feelings, nowhere have I succeeded, it has been deemed by me that it is impossible to rid yourself of emotions. They always come back to haunt you. Death will stalk you your whole life, draining away at your life, bit by bit, until it's all gone. Death, it is not the absence of life, it is the sucking of character, of soul, from a being.
