The fight seems so important. Each syllable aimed and flung like a bullet, the words are intended to wound. The tone is poison sprayed over the opponent. Winning an argument is of paramount importance and vanquishing the other, life’s sole purpose. Small fights, big fights, issueless ones, righteous ones – fights seem the essence. Life is dialectic and conflict the essential.But as the barb strikes the mark, I flinch. The blood that oozes out is my own. The expression of defeat on that face hits me in the solar plexus and I am crushed in victory. I win the battle every time. I am strong, invincible. Yet, I lose.
In the last few months, I lost people close to me. Some to death. Some to time and then some more to anger. And all that remains at the end of the day is the fights that I had with them. Harsh words uttered and crystallized. Angry whiplashes. Nasty shots.
I won every time. But none of the moments spent in happiness remains. When I run my tongue on the rim of my memory, all I taste is bitterness. And there is no way I can undo my victories.
I am a warrior who never learnt the rules of war. My battles are with my people, my homegrown plants, my little dreams, my ill-defined, ill-found loves. And against myself.
I am a warrior who never learnt the rules of revenge. I lash out with all might at my foes, writhing in waking nightmares and sleeping agonies. And, when I wake up, the scars are all on me. I am a restless fighter. And an eternal loser.
