She is momentarily held hostage by loss and self pity. A tear rolls from beneath dark glasses. Lips clench against unwelcome sobs and a gloved hand angrily wipes the salty drop away. She closes her eyes against the harsh, jerk-inducing lighting, girding herself to make no scene in this place of greater pain than hers. The tears come afresh as her brain insists on comparison… How has it come to this? Ten years ago, a crowd roared as she proudly marched below the Great Britain placard, her movements as crisp as her freshly starched dobok, her mind as firm as the knot that holds the black belt on her waist. She’d stood alone in the centre of the arena, ready to perform, her feet apart, her shoulders back, her head held high, her face strong, focused, determined. Her soaring kicks had come fast and hard, her punches and blocks enough to break flesh and bone, the choreography engrained from thousands of hours of all-consuming practice. She is sure-footed, graceful, never-wavering. The ugly destroyer that squats inside her nervous system will not beat her. She will not let it. The inevitable decline has, at times, been so slow as to appear a plateau. At other times, it has taken a sudden, plummeting lurch, shattering hope and determination, destroying denial. But she has always rebounded, more disabled, yes, but sure of heart and mind. No matter what it takes from her, no matter how her world shrinks around her, she will not be beaten. Is this what it takes then? A walk from the car to the hospital? The frequent stops to rest and breathe… just breathe… getting longer and longer as the stumbling, shuffling advance between rests gets shorter and slower each time she pins her shoulders back and forces her legs to take one more step? Until all she can do is find a wall and give in? Now, as she leans there, invisible to passersby enveloped by their own monsters, her knees are shaking, her body jolting with each blast of neurological overactivity, the soles of her feet screaming, her breath rasping, her hands clutching her walking stick, the only thing keeping her upright. The sense of loss is overwhelming. But it must not win. It cannot win. Her saviour is a story. This is it. This link will take you to a video taken by a fellow GB competitor, Chan Sau, in one of the training halls of the taekwondo club I used to belong to. I don't pretend to ever have been as good as this guy (he had, after all, taken a gold medal at the world championships several years before), but it will give you an idea of the sort of thing I used to do. There are no sound effects: his kicks and strikes really are that powerful.
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Are you old enough to remember them from your working life? Are you young enough to be having one right now? Sitting at your computer, your fingers flashing on the keypad, but achieving nothing? Looking busy to passers by, but hitting none of your targets? Reading sort-of-justifiable-to-colleagues/boss/self stuff on the internet, clicking aimlessly, tidying your desk, sorting out your stationery, doing just about anything to just pass the time until you can stop and put the entire miserable day behind you?
I've written a short story for a competition this week. Tick. I've written several new chapters of the latest Shaper instalment. Tick. I've scheduled trial adverts for Kat on amazon. Tick. I've organised a promotion for A Shaper's Promise. Tick. I've attempted to find ways to generate reviews on amazon.com (PLEASE *note the hysterical use of capitals*, PLEASE let me know if you know anyone in the USA who might write one for me!), but have found the only way is to pay or spend weeks painstakingly compiling your own list of possible reviewers, most of whom will never get back to you. No tick. Sigh. It looks like I've been busy. I haven't. I've been twiddling my mental thumbs much too often. I should be getting on with the next chapter, but I'm doing this instead. I'm prevaricating like the world's best prevaricator. Actually, I'm not. If I was the world's best prevaricator, I wouldn't be telling you, would I? Energy boost required. Mood boost required. Reason for giving a damn required. Roll on tomorrow... We are born with the belief that all living things share our minds. It takes approximately two years for us to learn a 'sense of self' and that, we are, in fact, alone. For all we surround ourselves with real and virtual companions, we are solitary creatures. For what proportion of our thoughts are visible in our words and actions? What proportion of our words and actions are free from restraint? Scared to offend, scared to be disliked, scared not to be the person we would have others believe us to be, scared to share the secrets that fill our minds in the dark... scared to tell the truth: no matter our personality, intelligence, values, beliefs, upbringing, wealth, education, or any measure you care to think of, our minds are icebergs, open only to ourselves, should we dare to look. My husband and I have known each other for nearly forty years. We know what the other will choose from a menu, we finish each other's sentences, we can predict with astonishing precision what the other will say and do when faced with a million scenarios, but we cannot, and never will, be anything other than fellow passengers through life. Yes, we are journeying together, but we cannot know what lies deep below the water. None of us can. |