Fight

A beginning of innocence, yet filled with an unrecognizable pain, that of a father’s battle with death, and the life death gained. A beginning where, already, things were hard. A fight of innocence against harsh realities, childhood fought hard, swinging with all his might, but disillusionment threw a hard punch and pain put him in a chokehold, squeezing the optimism and desire for good out of him.

From then on, the grip of pain grew, the awareness of a broken world grew, too, and to fit into a broken world and cope with the pain that pursued, it started small. First laxatives in the punch at the birthday. Then the small children’s snowball began rolling down the slope of life, growing with every moment, gaining momentum until it brought you to a breaking point. Prison. Messing with your brain. But you paid your time and you came out again, and this time on top. This time pain and darkness couldn’t blot out your fire. They perspired at the mere sight of your changed life. Protected by the muscles of hope and redemption, surrounded by the perseverance of truth and salvation.

But then it happened again. I don’t know if it was because you got distracted in the ring. Or if you were teamed up on, coaxed into the arms of pain where his strength could begin to squeeze the life out of you again. And he almost did. Dear, Dear Cousin, he almost did. His friends, darkness and cold, came to kick you while you were down, and they knocked the wind out of you. All of it. To the point that you couldn’t live without the support of a machine.

And now, a month later, you can be seen up and moving, living the life that almost left you. Breathing the life that was once stolen from you. Embodying the life that was almost taken from you. And for that I rejoice.