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28.9.2024

I'm not an athlete, but I know what it's like to chase a goal.


The blank canvas is my field. I leave muddied, grass-stained words across the page. I boast about knowing the keyboard underneath my fingertips the way an athlete knows the dirt under their cleats. I say this because I clock into practice everyday, even if not everyday is good.


Goal-chasing is an ego-driven sport, because statistically not everyone can be a winner. I spend my time imagining victory as my tongue memorises the taste of defeat. I imagine hearing deafening cheers from bathroom stalls. Each day the goalpost moves a little further. I do whatever it takes to keep it in sight.


I root for the losers in fiction, because I know what it's like to be one. I find the romance in stubborn, gritted teeth and aching, bleeding hearts. I brag about consistency, because a loser finds pride where they can. When you have nothing but weakness, you become resourceful.


I think when I finally do win, I won't know what to do with it. My scraped knees don't feel like they belong on the podium, my calloused hands don't feel like they deserve to grasp at metal. I think victory feels empty when you're basking in the praise of people who never saw your suffering.


I think when I finally do win, there's only one thing I'll do.


I'll grab the goalpost with my own two hands and begin pushing.

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