The Stubborn Fighter

It eats me, whole and alive. The underlying current of resistance. The stubbornness I could never hide. The rhythm of which is diabolic in nature—forcing me to struggle profoundly, before I could really learn the flow of its tune; the right notes, the perfect configuration.

It suffocates me, all of me. The scorching heat of ground pressure. The freezing coldness of the judgment I give to me. I push. I push hard. Understanding that my limits are high. I, in most cases, can’t measure this right. I ran out of breath. An image where I start to fear Death.

It liberates me, the child in me. The part where I can do whatever I want. Oblivious of the eyes of the guardians. Hmm. Fine—intently doing so and partly playing the game of a stubborn child. What’s in it for you, she asked. Playing, for the sake of playing the game, I replied.

It honors me, the fighter in me. It contributes to the never-ending loop of proving. To show off to me, in fact. I don’t need no audience nowadays, I reckon. The relationship I am trying to strengthen now is with the one I see in the mirror. Could sound narcissistic in nature, but one that prepares for the strong foundation of the tribe.

It reminds me, of my future. Of purpose—of what I’m here to do and what I signed up for. Of the unbreakable soul contract. The destiny of the matriarch. Thus, the fighter fights. The fighter perseveres. The fighter stands back up as it was supposed to be. The fighter fights, over… and over again.