Punching My Way Clear

Today was the first day I've actually felt close to 100% better (probably 98-99%, actually) since coming down with a cold last week. I only missed a half-day of work, but I haven't been up to doing things I normally do . I even accepted a ride home from work last week, which I rarely do ( I usually walk). I walked to and from work yesterday ( the 'to' part was great...it was 29 degrees , and the Moon was still out...I loved it), and today I went out into Beast's Gym (aka my garage) and had a round with the heavy bag.

I really like working out on the bag. I like all the steps...putting on the handwraps, the gloves, stretching out, and then beating the Hell out of the bag. My garage is a bit cramped, but I can move about 3/4 around it, swinging all the while. Punches, jabs, uppercuts, palm-heel strikes, roundhouse kicks, elbow and knee strikes, and even the occasional headbutt if I'm getting too much into it, making a percussive sound as I exercise and take out any aggressions I may have out on the bag. Sometimes it's just random, vague aggressiveness as I hit again and again, sometimes it's a specific person or people I envision as I punch away, picturing blood spraying with each hit. Sometimes it's myself I'm angry at, and the bag (and my arms) take the punishment. And sometimes, it's just me working out.

No matter what the reasons are , or how long I stay out there and punch, or how many times I hit it, it's the bag that always wins. It's always right there, still hanging, tireless in its spot, as I wearily remove my gloves and unwrap my hands, waiting patiently for me to return to battle it once again. It's good to be back in swinging again.

"And in this Heart of Darkness, Our Hope lies on the floor, All Love , like Fame, is fleeting, When there's no hope anymore" -Apocalyptica