I launch myself into my punching bag. With every several punches I leap back, switch footing, and jump back into the oncoming enemy, adjusting myself carefully to ensure first blow. There is grunting, panting, and a popping noise with melodic frequency. I never know when to stop a song.
I play it over and over until there is nothing enjoyable in the melody anymore. It sits on repeat, one, two, three times. It drags on and on, far past the point of enjoyment, and into pain. And then my knuckles bleed.
The skin comes off with glazing blows, repetitious hits tear at the finger joints. After I stop I take four giant breathes, exhaling slowly, and go about my activities. The skin is pink like puppy paws for a few days, vibrant with color, reactive to every touch. Eventually they scab over and begin to itch.
And then I find myself scratching the itches. But I'm careful not to injure them further, contemplating all my actions so as to ensure no further damage. Eventually they become red with hardened blood like the scales of a dragon. I note how similar Acario is to his brothers, he models them in many ways.
I find papers in my hand, commentary on Song of Songs as allegory, interpreted by so many patristic authors. Some of their ideas destroy the metaphor, others build it up. I'm not in the down at my hands.
I believe they are ready for another go at the punching bag because they have become so hardened from their last experience. Yet only after a few hits I am bleeding again. Doesn't take much does it?
I reopen the wounds on my own accord -- because I am a fool.
I play it over and over until there is nothing enjoyable in the melody anymore. It sits on repeat, one, two, three times. It drags on and on, far past the point of enjoyment, and into pain. And then my knuckles bleed.
The skin comes off with glazing blows, repetitious hits tear at the finger joints. After I stop I take four giant breathes, exhaling slowly, and go about my activities. The skin is pink like puppy paws for a few days, vibrant with color, reactive to every touch. Eventually they scab over and begin to itch.
And then I find myself scratching the itches. But I'm careful not to injure them further, contemplating all my actions so as to ensure no further damage. Eventually they become red with hardened blood like the scales of a dragon. I note how similar Acario is to his brothers, he models them in many ways.
I find papers in my hand, commentary on Song of Songs as allegory, interpreted by so many patristic authors. Some of their ideas destroy the metaphor, others build it up. I'm not in the down at my hands.
I believe they are ready for another go at the punching bag because they have become so hardened from their last experience. Yet only after a few hits I am bleeding again. Doesn't take much does it?
I reopen the wounds on my own accord -- because I am a fool.
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