2005-03-27 @ 11:19 p.m.
On the way back from a fabulous time in Chicago hangin with good ol' Tac who always knows how to make someone feel bettter...i wrote the following. Mind you i was drunk off tapas, sangria, and lack of sleep but nontheless i hope it makes sense in transcription ( i can barely read my sloppy writing) cause it pretty much sums me up at this moment:
Women just want to be loved. Answer me this, would you rather go toe to toe with someone you know is your equal or go heart to heart for 12 rounds with someone who is proclaimed to be your match??
It's a fucked up crazy thing love. It hurts like all hell. The bruises, the cuts, the swelling all goes away or goes down in time in a physical match but the emotional scarring that is delivered in a bout of emotion is one that lasts and hurts forever.The only visibly similar element of this bout to that of actual boxing is possibly the swollen eyes due to hours of crying. You might as well have been hit in the face...only that wouldn't have hurt as hard.
You are defeated. You both are. No one wins. It is a test of wit, of heart, of strength, of confidence. At the end, no matter who is judging, both contenders are beaten to a pulp, weak, and as lonely as they've ever been even though they have a crew in their corner trying to make them feel better.
If only it took a tub of ice to heal -- no. Instead it takes years of tears, and facing of your own fears, and I'm sorry my friends, but you may come to terms with it, but you never are free of it.
At who's expense are you getting up after the ref counts to 10?? After you're face hit the mat?? You get up-- you lose. You stay down--you lose. Because you compromise if you stay down. You comprimise because there is always another emotion to express- another punch to be thrown.
Your guard is nothing. You're lying to yourself for that second to think that it does. Each throw penetrates deeper than any bruise could show.
So you dance around...but then really you're just avoiding the inevitable -- oh, but don't throw the first punch because that shit will be held agianst you, be it by your opponent, or by yourself for the rest of your life. You only wish you took a right hook uppercut to the face. You only wish you could feel the blood fom your eye meet the blood from your lip, at least then you'd know where to go to start the healing.
But no-- as complex and as primal as boxing is it is no match for love.
For it is only when you know love or the lack thereof that you can actualize hate. It's a terrible beautiful thing the way a boxer can look back on the scar on their cheek and remember a moment.
A moment of glory for some, a moment of defeat for most. but a moment that you will remember for always.
I'm just a bunch of broken pieces trying desperately to create a beautiful mosaic to at least continue to still give the illusion of oneness, the illusion that I'm held together. But I can't even do that now.
A million pieces.
Each color looking for its family.