Fiction: Swing

Time was, I was hard and lean like famine. After an hour on the heavy bag, my knuckles aching to be free of the tape that binds them and the rest of my body breaking down in a big fuck you of exhaustion, it’s dead clear that I’m far from the land of good health.

Things get worse. You hope they’ll get better. So you swing. You do it until it hurts and there’s nothing left inside of you but broken glass, vapor and disbelief that the damn bag’s still there. 

It’s all you can do to raise your hands today, but tomorrow’ll be different. Most meat scars. Most meat heals. You’ll come back harder and you’ll hit that bag. You’ll sweat some. You’ll hurt and you’ll feel thunder sounding up your arm sometimes as you connect. That’s just how it is.

Some folks might say otherwise, but they’re wrong. 

Just keep swinging.