Compos Sui

i often forget what im doing with myself. i forget who i am, i forget what i've accomplished, only to forget what i am capable of.

If there was ever a time in my life that i've been lost it would have to be now. my head spins, my heart sits cold and silent behind my ribs. there is no paint under my fingernails. my camera case holds four months worth of dust, grey and uninviting.
Yet my legs are sore, my back throbs. my hands pulse from my late night boxing sessions. red welts grace my elbows. Its the only thing that makes me feel alive and ready when running has not. my anguish rests inside two white gloves that wait for my blows of frustration into the humid night air. I sequence kicks and punches to a bag. our shadows stretch together, ghost like across the empty field lit only by private airport lights. My blows intesify as i think about every split i didnt meet on the track, i feel my anguish leave through poised shoulders, bent elbows and a perfect shot to the blue bag. My troubles spill out every pore. For a while ill feel mended, well, confident, sure.

I am the master of myself. My own director.