(no subject)
It wasn't supposed to be this way -- that's what you're supposed to say, right? When things go wrong, you're meant to deny it, feign shock that life could ever treat you for a wrong turn -- but everything was going so well. As much as I'd like to think that I've grown out of such a naive tendency, having been dealt every crummy hand that the universe has the power in it to give, tragedy never fails to sneak up on me, even though I make a point of anticipating it.
Tony Stark is dying and nearly a quarter of the people in attendance at my wedding last week have disappeared in one fell swoop, including my best friend on this lousy piece of rock. That's not to mention the psycho environmentalist who tried to blow up the damn scrapyard just a couple of days ago, which is a whole other can of worms -- one I push from my thoughts when I don't have to deal with it from an administrative standpoint. It's hard to know where even to begin, the sense of loss and futility all but overwhelming, leaving me to wonder what's next with the sort of blind panic I haven't felt since Osborn lost his head back in January.
I end Calculus early tonight, too distracted by everything else to be much use in the classroom. Despite still running on one lone cup of coffee from this morning, I don't head towards anywhere to eat, my underlying anxiety doing away with my appetite and replacing it with something else. A familiar itch has settled deep inside my bones, the need to hit something for catharsis' sake driving me towards a punching bag I saw once upon a time, just off the beach.
I don't often venture this way, having too many bad memories associated with this part of the island to make it worth my while usually, but it somehow seems appropriate to be here now. Running my fingers along the cracked leather of the bag, I perform a cursory glance of the surrounding area, making sure there's no one lurking in the trees. Satisfied that I'm alone, at least for the time being, I ditch my shirt and tie and kick off my shoes, leaving me standing in a pair of fraying jeans in the middle of the jungle. It's the closest I've felt to normal all day.
There's nothing wasteful in my movements. Each punch is to the point. Every kick lands with purpose. I move quickly and economically, not letting so much as a second tick by without another direct hit, but in the back of my mind, I know with utmost certainty that I was once capable of so much more. Even as I let loose with a solid roundhouse kick, I feel sluggish. Weak. Exhausted. Still, frustration fuels me forward for another few minutes before I finally give in to my body's protests, bracing myself with both hands on the bag as I lean forward and try to catch my breath.
It's only then that I realize I have company, the tell-tale snap of a branch cutting loud and clear over the pounding of my heart in my ears. Without turning around to see who it is, I swallow thickly, and ask in a flat voice, "How long have you been standing there?"
[Timed to the evening of the first. Tags accepted through Friday. Despite appearances, it's not a bad time to meet him.]
Tony Stark is dying and nearly a quarter of the people in attendance at my wedding last week have disappeared in one fell swoop, including my best friend on this lousy piece of rock. That's not to mention the psycho environmentalist who tried to blow up the damn scrapyard just a couple of days ago, which is a whole other can of worms -- one I push from my thoughts when I don't have to deal with it from an administrative standpoint. It's hard to know where even to begin, the sense of loss and futility all but overwhelming, leaving me to wonder what's next with the sort of blind panic I haven't felt since Osborn lost his head back in January.
I end Calculus early tonight, too distracted by everything else to be much use in the classroom. Despite still running on one lone cup of coffee from this morning, I don't head towards anywhere to eat, my underlying anxiety doing away with my appetite and replacing it with something else. A familiar itch has settled deep inside my bones, the need to hit something for catharsis' sake driving me towards a punching bag I saw once upon a time, just off the beach.
I don't often venture this way, having too many bad memories associated with this part of the island to make it worth my while usually, but it somehow seems appropriate to be here now. Running my fingers along the cracked leather of the bag, I perform a cursory glance of the surrounding area, making sure there's no one lurking in the trees. Satisfied that I'm alone, at least for the time being, I ditch my shirt and tie and kick off my shoes, leaving me standing in a pair of fraying jeans in the middle of the jungle. It's the closest I've felt to normal all day.
There's nothing wasteful in my movements. Each punch is to the point. Every kick lands with purpose. I move quickly and economically, not letting so much as a second tick by without another direct hit, but in the back of my mind, I know with utmost certainty that I was once capable of so much more. Even as I let loose with a solid roundhouse kick, I feel sluggish. Weak. Exhausted. Still, frustration fuels me forward for another few minutes before I finally give in to my body's protests, bracing myself with both hands on the bag as I lean forward and try to catch my breath.
It's only then that I realize I have company, the tell-tale snap of a branch cutting loud and clear over the pounding of my heart in my ears. Without turning around to see who it is, I swallow thickly, and ask in a flat voice, "How long have you been standing there?"
[Timed to the evening of the first. Tags accepted through Friday. Despite appearances, it's not a bad time to meet him.]