stage two

I have grown used to the pull and push of climbing the walls. Of the rocks digging into my hands and belly. The constant bleeding and burrowing, how raw and red my skin has grown. Each little slice has dug in a little bit deeper, I am growing tired. My muscles have long since forgotten how weak they are. The me in-front of me continues on, his pace unbroken. This climb, one he has done several times before. Nothing is slowing him down, the calluses on his body have grown to be so thick that I doubt anything can cut him.

I still cant believe I was falling. I promised on broken knees that I would follow the light and in one missed instant I fell. I began to drown in self pity and hate again. My body in real life, I am aware now of this...blackness breaking, has broken. A knee shot to hell, hips knocked lose. Mighty muscles have given way to fat and sloth.

But beneath this surface is the strength.Covered in layers of humility and falseness is the rolling boiling anger and power. The red that the me in front displays. Some parts righteous others against self the rest of pure world bending anger. One that when it shows it's head for the barest of second people scramble to calm the surfacing monster. 

My body is broken but not my spirit. For my spirit holds the flames tight and whispers to itself daily.
 "Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Each long terrible day it raves against the ever beating of people against me. But I have been battle hardened by years of trails and tribulations. I have become scared and battered on the inside. I am the me..I am I. If that makes sense great.. if not I am sorry. The me...the real me I guess. Well now he is the real me. What with the scares and the limping and the dead-set gaze to always live. The fire that burns in his eyes are similar to mine...well they are mine. But mine don't truly burn with a fire like his. Mine are an ocean of pain and power. Or so people tell me. 

I am told time and time again that my eyes hold pain and suffering. But always compassion and empathy. That no matter my own pain I have helped others. Even in my dark periods. I have risen to help. But then they have also said that when my anger is shaken and awoken that my eyes turn...dark powerful. Hateful. That they can make a man bow in fear. Not respect. 

He flashes green and red. The green perfectly controlled. Sharp. Perfectly warm and powerful. Rising three feet above his head in a sword like shape. The rest like a smooth stylized piece of armor covering his body. Each piece intricately crafted, but all a different style. The chest piece is brutish in size and style. The shoulders are finely carved, elegant, flowing down the arms to taper at his wrists. The hands are simple and curve around the rocks. The legs are woven pieces  with the right one supporting more armor and what looks to be extra hunks or rods of metal along the sides. The me birthed over the last year.

But the red... it has no control. It is raw and powerful. An ax flashes above him. Great and powerful, it must be his body height. The armor is....crude... but awe inspiring. Great hunks, square is the chest section. With the shoulders massive and over lapping. The armor is one craftsmanship. The me that was birthed in that day so many years ago.  

But why do both show up here? Why is he struggling to control his power? Why am I struggling to control him? Control myself?

I forgot why people used to fear me. But seeing myself from the opposite positions reminds me. I was a raw cauldron of anger and hatred. How it would be sitting there unmixed and then become unstable like some chemistry project gone wrong on a thousand levels. 

"You know why Hosking." His words ring sharp and hard into my already bleeding heart. Wincing my face contorts into pain. Physical brokenness is clear, my knee is quitting. Again. 

My fingers snap lose and I watch as his head snaps around, the red blaring loud and clear like a trumpet in the night. In a split second his hands fly off the rocks and he dives. He won't let me fall for he is me. One hand cracks lose and grabs my ankle, the other ones branches out and grabs the wall. I am barely kept from smashing into it.