existential disc

"nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as a steady purpose--a point on which the soul may transfix its intellectual eye" -- mary shelley

I am thrashing uselessly against the dry dead grass and dirt. desperation and pain roll me onto my side, then my back, then my front with my legs kicking idiotically the entire time. I struggle to stop flailing for a moment and after an eternity, I finally feel air slowly seep into my lungs again. a few thankful gasps later, a relieved "fucking christ" sneaks out from between my clenched teeth. yay, for being able to breathe again. I just lay there for a moment and wait for the throbbing in my ears to die down. fucking phoenix with its fucking dead grass. these "fields" are basically parking lots of hard packed clay that some asshole decided to sprinkle some hay on. stuff is starting to itch my face. tastes nasty too-- tastes like the shame of missing a diving catch after a long run.

gradually, the world around me comes back into focus. pairs of cleats approach. voices of concern. the nearest one chuckles as I get helped off the ground.

"the score is ray, zero; the ground, a billion."

as I stand, various parts of my body feel it necessary to call attention to their existences.

excuse me. EXCUSE me. hello? yes. hello. I did not enjoy that. thank you. why the hell do you do that to us? why? for glory? for pride? for what? for a disc of plastic? could you please consider the consequences of diving at the ground? hey everyone, please shut up. we are still in need of air.

"you okay?"

tell him you're dying. I AM ACHY RIBS, PAY ATTENTION TO ME. "okay, enough."

"awesome. play on!"

and the whining fades as play restarts. the nagging of pain and exhaustion diffuses into superfluous background noise. the disc is in the air again. my entire world once again narrows to 160 grams of airborn plastic.

I am naught but the chase.