Mercurial, fickle, capricious and other synonyms but it’s not something to be proud of. It is being a whirlwind that sometimes ignites some pride because in circles, you move and have a taste of every corner before you decide to disappear deep in the ground. – Could name a tornado after me.
Just like that, the story of being up against the wall is not an easy one to tell. It’s synonymous with victory expect you do not stretch your arms up high in joy. No. You hold fists and fold arms, draw them close to your chest, lower your head between your thighs, fall on your knees and wish you could be rolled down to where those who are constantly defeated go. In that moment, being rolled seems like glory because your thoughts have been curled into something like a ball and the last thing you’d wish for is having ball that cannot roll. (Or words that don’t rhyme.)
So it’s like hanging on the collar of your shirt, up against the wall. It’s literally being up against the wall.
Somewhere along the road I thought quitting was exaggerated. It meant, at least to me, that I knew what I wanted and this was not it. The defeat was victorious. The glory in my defeat: I went to only one basketball practice session in seventh grade or my whole life for that matter because I took words claiming defeat to be too much for me. I left my first “job” three days after I started because I thought I didn’t deserve it. The fact that I didn’t like it could not have stopped me. I start but it’s not every time I finish. I’ve cut off friendships for no reason, I stood up and told my physics teacher I couldn’t take my test fifteen minutes after he handed it to me and left the room. I have so many stories of losing before the battle actually begins and in that, there is no glory.
A few weeks ago, I thought of myself as pretentious. I was going to save a few dollars a month by letting myself be; giving myself a chance to explore anything but constantly wearing my heart on my sleeve on blogs and sharing them. Even then, I found myself enjoying tumblr, writing, because as much as I try to hate it, I feel the need to love it. It’s like hands slamming me into a bubble which I fight to leave when I enter and fight harder to enter back in once I leave. It’s being up against the wall and wishing to stand your ground, more literally than idiomatically.
When up against the wall, that standing on ground is a possibility does not occur. Finding comfort in the moment does but in the whirlwind it also eventually turns out to be piercing when you touch ground, leaves you bare and helpless because once the wind is no more, the wall has fallen and you’re lying flat on the ground. Name the tornado.
In fights with the force that is constantly in friction with yearnings with my soul, I constantly lose but this one may be one to win.