feetontheceiling
She remembered it, then, seeing her children trade clothes and shoes and toys - needing more, the way she hadn't since her brothers were born and her mother sewed their family together the same way she'd wielded a needle to patch the holes in their hand-me-downs.
He frowned down at the bands, cool metal biting into his limbs; these ever-present signs of man's conquest impeded his movement and kept him rooted to the ground. How he longed to glide through the air, wings outstretched as he surveyed the land below - words could not describe the want that accompanied the searing pain of the iron.
For now he would bide his time, waiting for the day that the iron would rust and the men would perish under his flames.
Power, surges through his veins and causes his blood to boil beneath the skin, begging for release, catharsis, rest. It is difficult to harness it, keep it in check; yet the stern, stoic expression remains in place, a contradiction to the near-lack of control he has.
When the urge is too great, his control waivers; however, he has just enough of it to keep going and tuck the want away, saving it (and himself) for a more natural time.
It's days like these that I find myself wondering about the meagre details because it's days like these that I realize I am one. If there is a grand scheme, my role is small; the words may flow and make me feel as though I have something different, but somehow I am still the same as everything before, and current, and after.
At this point, there can be no specific - how could there with so many generalizations to be made, so many stereotypes to fill, so much history to be repeated?
Creeping, wordless, invisible unless they feel the need to cause a ruckus and try to squash you with their looming hands. You and I are not so different; wholly natural and serene, pristinely alive, quietly persevering in the face of loud adversaries. We will go on, weaving our webs, mine of love and friendship and trust, you with weak, flimsy material.
No, we are not different at all.
So here we are again, ready to do battle - though our stakes aren't nearly as high as those equipped with swords, mounted upon great beasts, both rider and steed fierce and fiery in intent. No, we don't fight for our lives, our honor, our freedom; yet we still fight for dominance and the exhiliration of the moment. We fight with no less fervor than true warriors, the will to win pumping just as quickly through our veins. For now, the promise of pressure and pain is just as reassuring as the struggle for survival.
Either way, we prove to ourselves that we are capable. Steadfast. Alive.
Throughout time, sports have allowed people worldwide to connect, as well as channel aggression into something more productive and worthwile. They instill character and good values, ranging from responsibility to humility.
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