I tune that out.
What not to read into: The fact that I am all of these things and yet uncertain of much of anything.
The neurosis of the past couple months (days? How long has it been?) keeps things inconsistent but then again when is life really at balance?
Yes, there are worries.
Yes, there are fears.
Yes, there are omissions from memory.
And yes, there seems to be a lot lacking in that particular category. Memory. But it’s mostly understood. I know that they are in here, in this skull of mine…when I see the evidence, it is more like remembering than having never seen it before. I seem to be passed over, the world and it’s all-too-important media getting ahead of me.
I’m the one running, gassed, left gasping for breath.
DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU PULLED THAT TOOTH OUT ON LIVE TV AND WERE SUBSEQUENTLY BANNED FROM THE SHOW?
When I read this text message, I can sense that it’s happened. My tongue, now healed over (as if only noticing now), instinctively goes to the right tooth, the tooth now clearly a fake, an expensive replacement.
I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t known of it before.
Yeah, but then I still have the same inquiries of self-loathing.
The whole, “What were you thinking?” pangs of regret that quickly send me into shame spirals.
Like right now, I realize that I’m aimlessly walking the entirety of the house, not really paying attention to anything (not that there’s anything to notice; the house is empty); I might have noticed that Sarah’s room is unlocked. I might have noticed that Sarah isn’t home. No sign of Spencer. The hauntings that brew in these spaces are never near enough, close enough of a connection, for an encounter. Not like James or whatever is going to say hello.
I don’t sense a disturbance.
I only hear Black Mamba’s voice, commenting on everything I do.
YOU ARE THREATENING ME
And of course that’s not me saying those things. Black Mamba parlays threat with accusation of a threat.
Recognize that everything in my life is a fight that might not ever be fully won. Read into the fact that there are less factual elements and more of an identity exaggerated and sensationalized, controlled and destroyed, contradicted and rendered inconsistent, for the sake of the media’s interest.
I am unreliable.
I am unforgivable. I am in denial…
All for the sake of the identity I’ve conceived.
Sell a little to gain a lot. Or whatever.
I AM GOING TO KNOCK YOU OUT BY RD FIVE
This is all part of pre-fight psychology. There’s the tendency for your opponent to attempt to derail your focus, your ability to concentrate on fight strategy, but when you are fighting yourself, the psychology is yours to over-analyze and let consume via an obsession.
There are too many layers to the fight.
I can’t go at the fight alone.
“Spencer…?”
I hear his voice but it’s drowned out by Black Mamba’s.
“Spencer…? I can’t hear you. Speak up!”
HE’S TRYING TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH
I know the truth.
Shut up! I can’t figure out where he is.
HE’S IN YOUR CORNER, TRYING TO TELL YOU WHAT YOU NEED TO DO TO WIN
What I need to win? I need to win, that’s all I need to know. I need to keep my sights on the victory. The big “v.” I can’t let you get to me. I can’t lose. If you win, I will have lost myself. I might as well be a person dead on their feet, lost in his own grey matter, a thread of half-thoughts and haywire actions.
Willem Floures:
One of those celebrity athlete personalities that took a turn for the worse. People claiming “he’s manic depressive” and “he’s out of control.”
Read into what I don’t want to read into:
Fear.
Worry.
Fear and worry that it is all real.
Not imagined.
My fight record is ruined.
I used to be the best of the best.
And that’s not an egotistical statement, okay?
BUT YOU AREN’T LISTENING
I can’t help but listen.
Maybe it’s you that doesn’t want to listen.
You can get out of my headspace. I can’t.
I can’t escape.
I have nowhere else to go but back in the basement. I need to train. Two days until fight night. I need to train.
USELESS, YOU NEVER TRAIN, YOU DON’T READ INTO THE RHYTHM SURROUNDING YOUR LIFE
Believe me, I tried.
Past tense, I know. I “try.” Better? But I don’t want to read into this, any of what’s already happened. Publicity is publicity. I am right there, in the spotlight. I am still the WILLEM FLOURES.
There is a whole lot of fight left in me.
Look—
I mean see all of them?
There were six, now there are eight.
That’s a number that delves right into my losses. Each and every one of them is a potential defeat that can’t happen if I don’t let them go. I tie them up; I pretend that they don’t exist. Somehow Spencer continues to find them and bind them. I won’t question it.
I still don’t like the idea of kidnapping the competition, but then again, I don’t know what I like and dislike.
Really it can only end up hurting me in the end.
THEN WHY LET IT HAPPEN?
It seems everything is already happening with or without me!
I’m the last person to know and I’m the one that’s at the very center of every scuffle, every media-drenched accusation, every dreaded flicker, flash of the camera.
I don’t have a whole lot of time to read into things.
I have lost any structure to the identity I continue to destroy (define?).
No time to fight the thoughts; I will have to fight myself in the ring, to a sold-out arena, in two days.
I need to train.
EVERYTHING YOU READ IS TRUE
That might be true but I can’t let this brand of laughter languish. It’s laughter that is at my expense. It is laughter that should motivate me. I should focus and keep to the search within.
I realize that it sounds stupid but there has to be a reason why I want to be the best, right?
I want your attention, their attention.
I want you to realize that I can beat you.
YOU WON’T BEAT ME
I will beat you.
IF YOU BEAT ME, YOU END UP LOSING
TO YOURSELF
Don’t start with that. It has no effect on me.
I have long since lost interest in the subject. How we even exist is a matter of subjectivity. Looks like anyone that isn’t in the spotlight is cast in a brand of doubt. In fact, if there’s no brand there’s no brain, nobody there.
It makes sense that Willem Floures is a popular brand.
Everyone wants to be me.
I have to keep fighting if I don’t want things to change.
THEY CHANGE
EVERY MOMENT THEY CHANGE
LOOK WHERE YOU ARE NOW
VERSUS WHERE YOU WERE
LOOK HOW IN TWO DAYS YOU WILL BE
BEDRIDDEN AND FORCIBLY RETIRED
I choose not to read the last text message. I suddenly feel overwhelmed. I get in the ring, I take off my shirt and shoes, I look down at the design so permanent; I trace the ridge of one scar, a circular border around a purple and green dragon tattoo. I consciously tune out what I hear as well as the impossibilities that are now, somehow, in progress.
I tell them all, noticing that they are all watching me, “Life doesn’t make sense. If it does, maybe you’re dead.”
I consciously keep things simple.
I don’t read into any more of it. No not at all. I start shuffling around the ring, warming up my legs, practicing footwork.
I begin shadowboxing.
Clear-headed, phone set aside, Black Mamba is of no issue. The only issue is figuring out what training routines to stress in the next forty-eight hours.