batonnoir
Sinews strain; tendons groan. Sweat rolls down my temple as my muscles stretch and scream out in effort.
Everyone always says 'mind over body'. I believe in 'mind and body'.
There is no mind without a body. And no body without a mind.
A metallic triangle. A Pisces symbol. Peace sign. A small cloth strap from Okinawa. A key.
Symbols hanging from a key ring. All cheap, all seemingly meaningless.
But they are weighed down with your memories. They are you.
You told me to let go.
I will never let go.
You will keep on dangling, on this little keyring of mine.
Strength, i.e. power. The thing that a large majority of humanity strive towards.
But for what exactly? Control over others? Control over themselves? A chance to have a sensation of dictating their own destiny?
Strength is an admirable thing to have, certainly.
But will there be one, when the time comes, who will be strong enough to defeat the final adversary - Death himself?
My friend pushed me in, roughly. Almost tripped on the thick electrical wires looping all over the place.
"Honestly, why on Earth are we here? I never expect YOU to bring me here, of all people."
"Just relax and enjoy the show. You need to experience everything at least once."
"... Fine."
And the girls danced away, their high heels slamming on the beer-soaked tabletops.
Many may find it amusing that any trip I make to the barber's is fraught with distress and terror.
Not that the terror is the "Sweeney Todd" kind. Although that may be amusing, I do not have an irrational fear of having myself turned into delicious pastries every time I go get my haircut.
No, it is the inevitable disfiguration of my hair that brings so much fear to me whenever I make my trips to the godforsaken barbershop.
Something particularly hard, and rather pointy, fell on my head. Momentarily blinded by pain, I looked around for what it was.
A mango. From the tree above. Ridiculous. Doesn't this kind of thing happen in only cartoons and such?
To think I've been victimized by such a bizarre attack from nature itself. How lucky I must be.
She dragged my arm. Painfully.
"God damn it, must you be so enthusiastic? I just don't understand you."
"Hurry up, loser! All the good stuff will be gone!"
And off we went to the fashion outlet.
I walked up the last few stone steps, to be greeted by an old and weary wooden door, painted red.
I reached up to knock, only to have it open before I could.
The smooth swoosh of ancient robes. The sting of incense.
It seems I had found him.
They were scattered all across the floor.
I picked one up.
... eight of hearts. Rubbish. Tossed it aside.
... Joker. A distant bell in my mind.
... She was a Joker, too. An enigma. Could never read what was behind that face of hers. Those jokes - they hid her. And I could never find her.