hyper\real fiction 1: the boxer

‘How badly do you want it?’

To live his dreams, the most logical answer was to fight for it, inch by bloody inch.  Jacob in the Bible, wrestling with God himself for his blessing.

Daytime life was just like every other blue collar cliché.  Clock in, clock out, get paid every other week.  The nights were what he had lived for.  That bloodsport, the testing of will through the medium of flesh, gave him a basic, animalistic joie de vivre.

Life otherwise was pretty monotone, living in the big city.  He had a wife and a daughter whom he cherished very much and who cherished him, and things were okay.  Sometimes he would wonder whether he should give up that night life, if, god forbid, he comes up against someone who hits him the wrong way and turns him into a vegetable, if he doesn’t die from the blow.  Everyone he knew worried for him in that sense.  Yet he felt like, if he stopped fighting, that there would be little else in life to revel in.  He was 42 years old.


Asleep on the subway bench, I watched that man with his fancy golden Air Jordans on.  Thought about myself, heading back to an empty apartment building.  I don’t envy him; I do respect his drive, though.  Wish that I had an appetite, a plan and a means to look as physically impressive as he did.

My appetite, unfortunately, is for a hardened gram of pure opium to swallow.  That gets me through the lonely nights nowadays, at least until I run out of money.  sigh…


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