The War of Recovery
Enemies are not complicated. They are simple to understand; they can be predicted, they can be outsmarted, and they can be defeated. They can come back, and you can already be three steps ahead of them. They can try to win, and you can let them, only to bring them down at the last possible moment. Strategy over strength, brains over brawn, mind over muscle. For that is what I have done, what I am doing, what I shall proceed to do.
I do not proclaim myself to be merciless, nor do I engage in unethical acts of cruelty. With my enemies, I hold the same standards as I do a commoner. I still retain my sense of honor, of dignity, and of respect for my opponent. They may not share the same sentiments, the same perspectives or moral values, but I still do not falter, for their ways are not my ways. I am the victor. I am the winner. I am the one who is last standing at the end, the one who never backed down, the one in all the stories, for there was nopony else left to make stories of.
Here it comes now, my enemy once again on the offensive. Such speed, such precision, a sad attempt to match the speed and precision of the blows I had in turn landed upon it. Such fine details of movement betrayed what I saw as anger, resentment, and malice, born of timeless shackles and eternal limits. It makes for my head, but I am ready. I have been ready, ever since I landed my last attack on it. With practiced movements, I raise my hoof to fend off the attack and deliver my return. It is a continuous cycle that I have entered time and again. Every move, every attempt to overtake my opponent, always is futile. I think I have the advantage, I push, I succeed, and I watch, only to see the opponent come back with strength to match my own, as if I had never landed a blow at all. What is it that keeps it going? Why does it come back, only to be defeated over and over? Does it not learn?
My defense, doubling as my offense, sent the thing reeling back with a sound that fell upon my ears like glass upon some poor helpless creature. I am surprised it affects me so. Perhaps it is the reason why I am so frustrated; my patience is wearing thin. As it flies away, I know it is only a matter of time before it returns, fully charged with the belief that it will win at last.
I wait. And I wait. And I wait. All the while I think to myself of how this vicious cycle began. I was living life freely, knowing not of any chains or boundaries. I push, I give, I push, and I give, until one fateful moment I pushed a bit farther than I had intended or ever had before. I thought I could recover, but recovery was not on my side that day. I felt myself plummeting, deeper and farther into failure, until I had suffered impact. And what an impact it was, enough to shatter my confidence into as many pieces as cycles my enemy and I have since been engaged: too many to count. I was discovered by allies and brought into a safe place. They said they would care for me, that they would help me, that they would provide a means of recovery. They lied.
Recovery, to them, was to strap me down with more restrictions, bound in body and mind, to their dominating will. They isolated me from the outside world. They surrounded me with fellow prisoners. They gave me hope, only so the despair that followed would cut all the deeper. All in the name of recovery. Well, I had had enough of this living lie. They want recovery? I’ll fight it. They bring me down, I shoot them down in return. They try to stop me, I won’t let them. That was the day I declared my war on recovery.
The tell-tale sound of my enemy approaching snaps me out of my reverie. It is coming back, in the same manner in which it came the last time, and the time before that. I raise my hoof once more, but I feel as if it has gotten harder to do so. Something in me is slipping away, a will to keep this up that is slowly diminishing. I almost don’t want to strike this time; it would all end so quickly, so definitively, yet something compels me. I bring my hoof down.
Soon after I declared my war, they came. They said they had to observe me, they had to analyze me. So they would know how to deal with me most effectively. They wanted to see how I would react in given situations. So they unleashed it upon me. It did not look very threatening at first. I was still new to this game of deceit so I lowered my guard. That was my first mistake. I started to engage with it, thinking of how I could turn this in my favor. If I could get this thing on my side, I might be able to get out of this wretched place. I could not have been more wrong.
Is it really coming back again? I know it sounds repetitive, but time just seems to slow down and speed up of its own free will. Having thought back to the moment this little quarrel of ours began, I was invigorated with renewed energy. I had more than my will to keep going; I had a will to get ahead, to push farther, to win. So, with my new and stronger resolve, I raised my hoof and brought it down.
It let out a small whimpering noise, no different from the others to the ear of an outsider. But to me, I heard it was different. I had acted with more force than I had before; I had allowed some of my initial malice and hatred to show in my attack; in short, I had lost control. Only for a moment, but it was the moment that mattered. I had struck with more force, more power, more speed, and inflicted more pain than was necessary. I heard its suffering cry, its pain evident in the screech of its voice. Closing my eyes, but just for an instant, I allowed that feeling to resonate within me. Was this how I wanted it to end? For I knew that the only way to end this was to act differently. Was to push farther, hit harder, and bring an ending judgment to this poor thing. If I was unable to do this, I would forever be stuck in this loop.
Engaging with this thing at first was harmless. For it. Memories of silenced dreams and shattered hopes filled me to the brim with fury, and the innocent thing absorbed it. It tried to match me, but I did not see what it was doing. I did not know it was mimicking what it saw; I only saw this thing get angrier and angrier with each passing second, for a reason unclear to my eyes. Soon, it became a battle of will; would I be able to dissuade it before it caught me off my guard? Or would it be able to mimic me through Tartarus and back? I retained hope for it, to not be blinded by hatred, and hope for me, to be able to get out of this place.
Yet, here I am, still locked in combat with this thing. Cycle upon cycle in this battle has worn me down. My resolve to leave has never been stronger, but upon reflection a new feeling overcomes me. This thing did not wrong me. This thing was, and still is, an innocent. It knows not what it does, only to do as it sees. And it first saw my cruelty, and in my moment of weakness, I created a monster out of it. It has attacked me only because it is the only thing it knows how to do. It can only do as I do……
Then it struck me. It only does as I do…so if I don’t fight, it will not fight in return. If I let off just a bit, make the first move to not keep fighting, it will do the same. It would end this cycle, it would end this battle; it would set me free to continue the war.
But the only way to do so is to suffer. I would have to make the first move. It would strike me with the strength that I had last, and that was my hardest blow. I would have to strike back less than that, much less than that, if I wanted to account for my previous falter. I would have to willingly take the hit to give this thing a chance at peace.
A third resolve enters my mind. Sacrifice is the name of the game. It is a harsh unforgiving game, full of lies and deceit, tricks and trades, winnings and weaknesses. It is the game of war. It is the game of recovery. It is the game I have been a part of for a long time now, and it is my turn to take the lead.
So, with my hoof steadied and ready, I brought it down with as much control as I could muster, allowing the impact to penetrate me fully, while not giving too much of my own strength in return. My attack still sends it back a few paces, but it is noticeably less energetic, and I can see it start to slow and lessen in ferocity. I had achieved success.
To my surprise, I had not suffered a great deal of damage. Not more so than I would have normally, which was a relief. As I watched this thing, it stopped its retreat, gathered itself, and proceeded to move towards me once again. However, I noticed there was something different this time, something I had hoped to see.
The thing was slowing down. It came closer, and every little bit it got slower and noticeably weaker. It came to the point where I had seen it pass with ease; now, it had little hope of scaling. A small cliff, barely three paces high, which it would normally jump over, stood in the way between us. I watched with bated breath as I expected to see it rise up once more.
But it never came.
I heard it retreat for the final time, back to the far side of our personal arena. It waited there, moved closer for a pace or two, then lay down and was still. I had to stare at it for a moment to take it all in. It was over. The cycle, the battle, the repetition, the predictability, the caution……the thing. All of it was gone now. Unexpected remorse filled my eyes as I tried to look away from the thing I had created, the thing that kept things still in time, the thing that caused me anguish yet kept me vigilant. I could not look at it anymore. I had to tear my eyes away, but the only place I could look and have any remaining shred of control was down. So, resolving to continue my war on recovery, and hanging my head in sorrow, I embraced my victory, wallowing in my defeat.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wx6g8IvJn6Y
