To subject one's self to such humiliation and near certain pain can only be defined as masochistic. Pigs to the slaughter, they flock to the source. The result is boasted and desired, but rarely met. Instead, after an interval of tears and recuperation, they return- a bit more broken, a bit more jaded, a bit more desperate- prepared this time for success.
Sense is lacking, hearts are hurting, and hormones raging. The desired is imagined but never met. Each failure sparks a hidden vigor, longing for success, praying this is the final endeavour.
I tumble down this slope head over heals. Blinded by the movement, disorientated by the crowd. In attempt to pick through the array, I experiment with the impossible, finding myself bewildered by the outcome. Sense is replaced with heart, reality by hormones.
~out of the fire and into the fire again, you make me want to forget and start all over~
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