A Deadly Dance

Lines get so blurry. Beauty or battering, discipline or destruction. They can go hand in hand. In high stakes, humans see another as meat, as a stone to be stepped on. Since the dawn of time, conquerors have wished to grind their foot on the throat of all who oppose and even the ones that don’t. It is such an innate desire to hold the throne, no matter how many bones you use to construct your triumphant cathedral. Wars are often fought with weapons, a means of cutting the feet off whatever rival stands ahead. Why do we fight? Power. We wish to own land, riches, and an economy prosperous enough for our survival and that of our loved ones. To ascertain a statement, plain and clear, day or night. I am the baddest man on the planet. Pressure, control. No space, no room to breathe. The goal is to clamp your lungs, clip your wings. Make you feel like every single turn you take you’re met with knuckles to the ribs, a shin to the jaw. On the ground, up against the cage, you’re met with suffocation. A steel blanket to wrap around your every inch.

Does this sound calming? To most it sounds like a nightmare. A gronk of a man with the back of a ninja turtle smothering you up against the cage to restrict your movement, weaken you. Reminiscent of sleep paralysis to some. To others, the ones who take pride in an arduous teeter totter of power, it’s heaven. It’s an acquired taste. There’s a certain sophistication to fighting that even its most avid fan may not appreciate. Yes, the goal is to inflict damage. What’s behind that? It’s not all about the finishing blow, it’s everything around it. That’s where it becomes an art form. To swing around the fist but send a kick to the shin. To bop left but strike right. To pounce straight but loop around at the last second, permeating the defenses. A seamless flow of movement is requisite. To never know where the blows end, never seeing where they start. The greatest fighters slither around their opponents like an infuriating snake. If a rock stands in defiance of water, the water does not go through the rock. So much energy is to be wasted when rhino heading a path already coveted. The water becomes the rock, taking form of the outside and becoming the rock’s environment. Now easily dictating the surrounding circumstance it takes control of the area with an incessant erosion. Water isn’t sharp but it will cut that rock down to nothing. In the cage, on the mat, an adversary sturdily opposed. The goal is to render them obsolete, to prove they have nothing for you but ammunition. Every single miniscule or monstrous move will prove to my advantage. This has nothing to do with strength or speed, although they do help. It is simply the work put in, the comfortability in trying to predict an unforeseeable future. This comes with dedication. An undying flame inside that wishes to consume all the rest, to reach the highest point. Take that fire and melt the snow from the peak of the tallest mountain. Although very few fighters reach that point, we all wish to obtain it. With each bump and bruise comes improvement. Whatever background you have, the roads you’ve travelled, the conducts construed. That person staring back at you on that stage is you. You’ll never hold more in common with anyone on this planet than you will against an opponent. You both have the same goal, ambition, drive. To share the colosseum together, to step in and put yourself at risk of only the Lord knows. It creates a respect, a brotherhood that is simply unfathomable to anyone who’s never been in the flow of a fight, felt that give and take. They give a shot and you take it, feel the burn and enjoy it. They’ve outsmarted you, they’ve set their move up well and you respect it, appreciate it. Now it’s your turn.