(no subject)
Last night, I dreamed I was in a closet. The shelves were high, almost out of my reach. My dad's berets, from where the U.S. Army still used colours, were lining the shelf. Just out of my reach was his maroon one, the one that meant the most to him. I pushed aside the blue, the black, all of them, trying to reach it. It stayed just out of my reach the whole time though, just brushing my fingers.
I woke up, and held his dog tags so tight, they left a crease in my palm.
My dreams have done nothing but disturb me lately. I dream about wearing my gear again, watching tournaments. I dream about fighting again, dream about the points being scored, roundhouse to the chest. Sweep to the shins, bruise that lasted two weeks, covered half my leg. Push kick to the thigh, took me down, hurt so bad I almost cried. I dream about forms, wake up with my arms aching from remembered soreness.
I dream about the staff in my hands, remember the clumsiness of learning.
I got the staff off the brackets today, and twirled it for the first time in six years. I was clumsy again, the movements unsteady.
I think my dreams are telling me that it's time to wake up. The dreamworld I've let myself live in, this directionless happiness, that needs to end.
Once upon a time, I was a fighter.
I'll be one again, no matter how much it aches.
I'm still reaching, still trying to be good enough. Mine won't be maroon. But it will mean the same thing, won't it, Dad?
I woke up, and held his dog tags so tight, they left a crease in my palm.
My dreams have done nothing but disturb me lately. I dream about wearing my gear again, watching tournaments. I dream about fighting again, dream about the points being scored, roundhouse to the chest. Sweep to the shins, bruise that lasted two weeks, covered half my leg. Push kick to the thigh, took me down, hurt so bad I almost cried. I dream about forms, wake up with my arms aching from remembered soreness.
I dream about the staff in my hands, remember the clumsiness of learning.
I got the staff off the brackets today, and twirled it for the first time in six years. I was clumsy again, the movements unsteady.
I think my dreams are telling me that it's time to wake up. The dreamworld I've let myself live in, this directionless happiness, that needs to end.
Once upon a time, I was a fighter.
I'll be one again, no matter how much it aches.
I'm still reaching, still trying to be good enough. Mine won't be maroon. But it will mean the same thing, won't it, Dad?