Post by Skyler Striker on Nov 25, 2012 2:54:14 GMT -5
Let me tell you about the heart.
The heart pumps blood around the body. It keeps us moving, keeps us alive, and on the surface that function appears pretty damn important.
But there are two definitions for a heart and the literal is far less important than the metaphorical.
Metaphorical hearts keep us moving forward. They’re not to keep us alive, they’re to let us LIVE. Really live. They tell us what we want, whether that’s darker than the deepest black or whether it’s brighter than shining gold. Most times it’s somewhere in between. They tell us when it’s time to go and in what direction. You KNOW when your heart is speaking. And they do speak. Boy, do they speak. They tell us more than a hundred books and a thousand words. They have this indecipherable language that we can somehow translate and even understand.
We wrestle and grapple with that language like we do with other things that we can’t quite make sense of. It’s not always clear at first, either. It can be deceptive and muddy, and it’s up to us to correctly decipher what it really means.
You know your heart is speaking when the literal and the metaphorical intersect.
You know when you bleed for the language of your heart.
You know when your heart is speaking.
Four years ago, a letter, scribbled in barely legible handwriting:
Three and a half years ago, an email, still tagged as ‘urgent’:
Three years ago, a chance meeting with an old friend:
Two and a half years ago, pride on the line:
Two years ago, more than pride:
Half a year ago, a post-it note attached to the fridge:
Two months ago, an external inquisitor:
One month ago, a question to himself:
Two weeks ago, an answer:
A deserted and empty warehouse. It’s familiar and yet unfamiliar, battered but full of memories. In the centre of the floor is a wrestling ring, bristling with tension and momentum in some inexplicable way. A man stands on the ground beside it, his feet planted in a fighting stance. An old punching bag hangs from the roof and receives shot after shot from the man. Sweat hits the crumbling wooden floor, dripping from his forehead and wrists and back and legs.
His knuckles are raw, inflicting pain with every punch and no gloves to protect him. He doesn’t need them, doesn’t want them. Aggression and adrenalin replace the need for anything like that. In his eyes this is perfect, this is the moment where the path reveals itself to him. He doesn’t need to do anything but make himself ready.
One punch too many and a droplet of red hits the ground. Blood replaces sweat. He stops to examine the cut. Crimson is an all-too-familiar colour. But he knows. That’s the moment, this is enough. He knows.
He knows when the literal and the metaphorical intersect.
He knows when he bleeds for the language of his heart.
He knows when his heart is speaking.
The heart pumps blood around the body. It keeps us moving, keeps us alive, and on the surface that function appears pretty damn important.
But there are two definitions for a heart and the literal is far less important than the metaphorical.
Metaphorical hearts keep us moving forward. They’re not to keep us alive, they’re to let us LIVE. Really live. They tell us what we want, whether that’s darker than the deepest black or whether it’s brighter than shining gold. Most times it’s somewhere in between. They tell us when it’s time to go and in what direction. You KNOW when your heart is speaking. And they do speak. Boy, do they speak. They tell us more than a hundred books and a thousand words. They have this indecipherable language that we can somehow translate and even understand.
We wrestle and grapple with that language like we do with other things that we can’t quite make sense of. It’s not always clear at first, either. It can be deceptive and muddy, and it’s up to us to correctly decipher what it really means.
You know your heart is speaking when the literal and the metaphorical intersect.
You know when you bleed for the language of your heart.
You know when your heart is speaking.
*****
Four years ago, a letter, scribbled in barely legible handwriting:
Dear Skyler Striker,
When are you coming back?
- A Crimson Fan
When are you coming back?
- A Crimson Fan
Three and a half years ago, an email, still tagged as ‘urgent’:
Mr. Striker,
We are pleased to announce your induction into the 2009 WCF Hall of Fame.
You will be contacted shortly with further details.
- WCF Legacy Committee
We are pleased to announce your induction into the 2009 WCF Hall of Fame.
You will be contacted shortly with further details.
- WCF Legacy Committee
Three years ago, a chance meeting with an old friend:
Striker: Mike?
Ragnal: Skyler? Holy hell!
Striker: How’ve you been, man?
Ragnal: Good, good! You hear about Hardaway?
Striker: No…
Ragnal: Skyler? Holy hell!
Striker: How’ve you been, man?
Ragnal: Good, good! You hear about Hardaway?
Striker: No…
Two and a half years ago, pride on the line:
Zach Davis: It’s all over! Kevin Hardaway has
finally, mercifully defeated Skyler Striker!
finally, mercifully defeated Skyler Striker!
Two years ago, more than pride:
Zach Davis: Brad Kane defeated Skyler Striker!
Bobby Cairo: The World Title escapes Striker’s grasp again at Payback!
Bobby Cairo: The World Title escapes Striker’s grasp again at Payback!
Half a year ago, a post-it note attached to the fridge:
It’s time.
- Jade
- Jade
Two months ago, an external inquisitor:
Seth Lerch: However, after your showing at War,
you're clearly not the kind of talent WCF is looking for.
you're clearly not the kind of talent WCF is looking for.
One month ago, a question to himself:
Are you ready? Do you really want this?
Two weeks ago, an answer:
I have something to prove.
You’re damn right I want this.
You’re damn right I want this.
ONE WEEK AGO:
A deserted and empty warehouse. It’s familiar and yet unfamiliar, battered but full of memories. In the centre of the floor is a wrestling ring, bristling with tension and momentum in some inexplicable way. A man stands on the ground beside it, his feet planted in a fighting stance. An old punching bag hangs from the roof and receives shot after shot from the man. Sweat hits the crumbling wooden floor, dripping from his forehead and wrists and back and legs.
His knuckles are raw, inflicting pain with every punch and no gloves to protect him. He doesn’t need them, doesn’t want them. Aggression and adrenalin replace the need for anything like that. In his eyes this is perfect, this is the moment where the path reveals itself to him. He doesn’t need to do anything but make himself ready.
One punch too many and a droplet of red hits the ground. Blood replaces sweat. He stops to examine the cut. Crimson is an all-too-familiar colour. But he knows. That’s the moment, this is enough. He knows.
He knows when the literal and the metaphorical intersect.
He knows when he bleeds for the language of his heart.
He knows when his heart is speaking.