One night...

So... This one night the girls started wrestling. The guys decided to follow suit. I was listening to Johnny Cash sing old hymns (to which my grandparents probably listened) while crocheting a hat when I was invited to join the bout, twice by two different people. I decided to participate. It was enthralling, invigorating, and uniting. I was inspired by the whole night to write this prose. One may even call it poetry (though it is important to note that it is common to incorrectly label things, especially in our modern culture). Critics, Friends and Mothers, here is my work (and if my mother has told you to read this because it is supposedly the greatest work of mankind, which she often does, don't believe her, but read it none the less).

A Refinement

Two sides, one common goal, both focused uniformly and whole-heartedly against each other. It is sport that needs no accessory, no field, no protection. A struggle filled with antiquity, vitality, and simplicity. One against one, using every force they can summon from every muscle. This struggle is not ostentatious. It is slow and strong. There is no malice in this fight, though many associate the two because of the pride that drives weak men to use their strength to defend what their pride cannot forgive.  They strive to destroy men's bodies when they believe words of reason or insult will no longer satisfy their hunger for vengeance. This is not the nature of wrestling. This is the adulterated use that men most often see fit to use. There is no malice in this fight. There is something natural, something beautiful, something right about using all the muscles in the body to constrain another. The entire body working together, against an active force. Through all of this, comes the man, refined, victorious, perhaps broken, but none the less refined. Despite injuries, despite hardships, despite loss, there comes experience. If that experience is not forgotten, it can be the most valuable reward. So fight, struggle, experience.