Nothing is more irksome, yet surprisingly amusing, than the face of an arrogant weakling. I approached you grinning, eyes aflame with the indignation of the wronged. Encapsulated safely in an office fortified with plexiglass, you smiled, silently challenging me to strike angrily and demonstrate hostility. Every action and counter would inevitably make its way to your little green book, ever present and constant, seemingly another withered appendage, similar to your emaciated arms. It must be an abysmal thing, to be a male in your mid-30's yet be more acquainted with a ballpoint pen than a boxing glove, and this is coming from a born writer.
My glare bore into yours as a blazing, raging inferno does to a titanic bundle of dry, ancient straw, inferring by the primally universal telepathy of aggression what my true intentions were. In another life, you would be splayed out on the deck, a cascade of crimson giving terribly brutal vitality to the clinically clerical surroundings. Alas, I have grown past such days, no longer that loose cannon vigilante striking out at a prodding, insidious world that colluded with despicable adversity to hinder me at every turn, to deny, or at the very least delay, each hallowed inch I fought for. My heart still beats, and will regardless, for I am forged from steel. Your skin is silk and your organs cotton, with feathery tendons comforting your impotence. Count yourself lucky, because Id love to spill some champagne.
On mornings like these, after enduring a 12 hour shift of mindnumbingly monotonous IT tedium, I return home and seek solely to crash and submit myself fully to catatonia. My training and writing beckon however, and who am I to neglect their longing. So, begrudgingly yet excitedly, I heed their calls, electric with the promise of a sprinting heart and stumbling tongue. In these instances Im powered by sheer will, a trait I share with an idol of mine, the infamous hitman John Wick.
Although he is fictional, granted tangibility by the incredible Keanu Reeves, I've always found him far more inspiring and motivating than anyone sharing this sphere of reality with me. In the words of his prior employer Viggo Tarasov, Godfather of the New York branch of the Russian Mafia, he is a man of "sheer fucking will". I found this description to be personally significant because I could relate on a deeply personal level, as well as a common social one.
My excursions into fitness arent always lacquered with rose petals, and the brutal truth is that for every dream session where my balance was perfect, my strength was indomitable and my form was crisp, there have been double the amount of slogging, dreary crawls that drained reserves of effort I was unaware I possessed.
In the calm before my exertions, where I was well rested, focused and driven, there exist innumerable nightmares fought through whilst I was eclipsed in the fog of fatigue, staring placidly at a pristinely perched moon at 0200 or greeting the awakening dawn as I swayed precariously on the verge of collapse, lavender tinged clouds lulling me into a peaceful, extended reverie. Reflecting on these memories fills me with pride, and I privately consider that maybe I, too, am fueled by sheer fucking will as well, minus the ominous connections to organized crime.
Why do so many irrationally disdain living simply? A couple of nights ago, upon expressing my desire for a fully furnished kitchen, the girl I was sharing tea with beheld me with a disrupted expression, as if I had just discussed the finer points of murder with her. She declared my vision sparse and lacking in all of the accoutrements required of a skilled chef. Unfortunately for her, I have a better chance of growing spontaneously to an even 6 feet than I do of ever being able to declare myself a chef in any fashion, aside from humorously.
I personally despise cooking with an odiousness commonly reserved for thieves, rapists and those that pour their milk before their cereal, and consider it an abominably dull drain on my beloved private time. But with the possibilities that have loomed on my horizon for over half a decade now solidifying into promises and certainties, I find myself willing to weather a nominal amount of culinary discomfort if it means enjoying delicacies like steak and eggs, bacon, hamburgers, and chili with white rice on a regular, consistent basis. According to my extensive research, usually conducted when Im drunk and pursuing the fabled comatose state of inebriation, all I'll need are a rice cooker, crock pot, and George Foreman grill. Simple, efficient, and effective. Only a few more fucking months.
As I lay here fading enjoyably, gradually slipping into the black nothingness of fitful and rejuvenating rest, I'm recovering my inner peace. The stress, hatred and annoyance of the past 17 hours begins to thaw, and as it melts gloriously, warmth radiates through my spent body and beleaguered spirit.
In these brief minutes, I witness myself automatically contemplate the events of my waking time. I critique everything from insignificant interactions with random acquaintances to the defining periods of my night with an eye towards personal development as well as personable conduct. I fear at times that Im too harsh, quick to embrace violence when a peaceful, smooth alternative is readily available and legally, if not genuinely, preferable. Hilariously, all thats required is a day out in town for my misanthropy to be reaffirmed for another generation.
In the still of our shared silence, I once again knew a tranquility I had long considered dead to me. Your wet, opulent eyes were striking in their refreshing innocence, auburn wells I drink from nightly as I revisit our bed, the rhythm of our synchronized breathing rocking us to sleep like bonded infants. If dreams are where I will once again awaken in the midst of our afterglow to find my soul tangled in your thickly curled Native hair, then I pray for a lucidity known only to the mystics. I should've appreciated your beauty as we danced along these pristine beaches, illuminated by the torches of brevity. Be free beautiful, for I am not, even as I wander these isles alone, unrestrained by commitment yet disconnected from the pulse of love.
My glare bore into yours as a blazing, raging inferno does to a titanic bundle of dry, ancient straw, inferring by the primally universal telepathy of aggression what my true intentions were. In another life, you would be splayed out on the deck, a cascade of crimson giving terribly brutal vitality to the clinically clerical surroundings. Alas, I have grown past such days, no longer that loose cannon vigilante striking out at a prodding, insidious world that colluded with despicable adversity to hinder me at every turn, to deny, or at the very least delay, each hallowed inch I fought for. My heart still beats, and will regardless, for I am forged from steel. Your skin is silk and your organs cotton, with feathery tendons comforting your impotence. Count yourself lucky, because Id love to spill some champagne.
On mornings like these, after enduring a 12 hour shift of mindnumbingly monotonous IT tedium, I return home and seek solely to crash and submit myself fully to catatonia. My training and writing beckon however, and who am I to neglect their longing. So, begrudgingly yet excitedly, I heed their calls, electric with the promise of a sprinting heart and stumbling tongue. In these instances Im powered by sheer will, a trait I share with an idol of mine, the infamous hitman John Wick.
Although he is fictional, granted tangibility by the incredible Keanu Reeves, I've always found him far more inspiring and motivating than anyone sharing this sphere of reality with me. In the words of his prior employer Viggo Tarasov, Godfather of the New York branch of the Russian Mafia, he is a man of "sheer fucking will". I found this description to be personally significant because I could relate on a deeply personal level, as well as a common social one.
My excursions into fitness arent always lacquered with rose petals, and the brutal truth is that for every dream session where my balance was perfect, my strength was indomitable and my form was crisp, there have been double the amount of slogging, dreary crawls that drained reserves of effort I was unaware I possessed.
In the calm before my exertions, where I was well rested, focused and driven, there exist innumerable nightmares fought through whilst I was eclipsed in the fog of fatigue, staring placidly at a pristinely perched moon at 0200 or greeting the awakening dawn as I swayed precariously on the verge of collapse, lavender tinged clouds lulling me into a peaceful, extended reverie. Reflecting on these memories fills me with pride, and I privately consider that maybe I, too, am fueled by sheer fucking will as well, minus the ominous connections to organized crime.
Why do so many irrationally disdain living simply? A couple of nights ago, upon expressing my desire for a fully furnished kitchen, the girl I was sharing tea with beheld me with a disrupted expression, as if I had just discussed the finer points of murder with her. She declared my vision sparse and lacking in all of the accoutrements required of a skilled chef. Unfortunately for her, I have a better chance of growing spontaneously to an even 6 feet than I do of ever being able to declare myself a chef in any fashion, aside from humorously.
I personally despise cooking with an odiousness commonly reserved for thieves, rapists and those that pour their milk before their cereal, and consider it an abominably dull drain on my beloved private time. But with the possibilities that have loomed on my horizon for over half a decade now solidifying into promises and certainties, I find myself willing to weather a nominal amount of culinary discomfort if it means enjoying delicacies like steak and eggs, bacon, hamburgers, and chili with white rice on a regular, consistent basis. According to my extensive research, usually conducted when Im drunk and pursuing the fabled comatose state of inebriation, all I'll need are a rice cooker, crock pot, and George Foreman grill. Simple, efficient, and effective. Only a few more fucking months.
As I lay here fading enjoyably, gradually slipping into the black nothingness of fitful and rejuvenating rest, I'm recovering my inner peace. The stress, hatred and annoyance of the past 17 hours begins to thaw, and as it melts gloriously, warmth radiates through my spent body and beleaguered spirit.
In these brief minutes, I witness myself automatically contemplate the events of my waking time. I critique everything from insignificant interactions with random acquaintances to the defining periods of my night with an eye towards personal development as well as personable conduct. I fear at times that Im too harsh, quick to embrace violence when a peaceful, smooth alternative is readily available and legally, if not genuinely, preferable. Hilariously, all thats required is a day out in town for my misanthropy to be reaffirmed for another generation.
In the still of our shared silence, I once again knew a tranquility I had long considered dead to me. Your wet, opulent eyes were striking in their refreshing innocence, auburn wells I drink from nightly as I revisit our bed, the rhythm of our synchronized breathing rocking us to sleep like bonded infants. If dreams are where I will once again awaken in the midst of our afterglow to find my soul tangled in your thickly curled Native hair, then I pray for a lucidity known only to the mystics. I should've appreciated your beauty as we danced along these pristine beaches, illuminated by the torches of brevity. Be free beautiful, for I am not, even as I wander these isles alone, unrestrained by commitment yet disconnected from the pulse of love.