It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable.
It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication.
The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used.
They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders?
My mattress is conforming to my body, getting used to my form. But I can feel the bones of the frame as I become more acquainted with it. I don't want to feel it. I'd rather pretend I never knew it. But the pillow bends in the middle, and the bed has a slight curve reserved for me to fit into.
The stain from my plate forms every day on the wooden table. I will leave it all behind. My parents have left my childhood home. I try not to think about it, grateful for what we have. It's more than enough.
Yet, I miss what we had. What must it be like to build that home and then lose it all? It's vastly different to build your voice, hone your skill, and lose it all with the twist of a leg. It's everywhere—in the songs and the sport.
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