Let me fight you.
I fight for the jobs I want, with the clients I want. I negotiate the ideas I have, I present the most likely outcome and I close. I'm a closer. ABC (always be closing) in my blood. I convince vendors, business associates, I sell packets and campaigns, I write copy, I blog. I fight. I'm a fighter.
Fighting my sleepiness. My restlessness. Because later in life the fight might be worth it.
I fight for the last piece of fruit, the bagged fresh fruit with the squeezed lemon and hot peppery sauce (yes I support small businesses).
I fight that damn treadmill, that hike-walk-run, those intervals - uphill, that resistance.
Every single day, I fight myself, I fight sadness; sadness hiding in my walk-in closet; there's a tiny colorful window in there but there's no space - shoe boxes up to ceil--it gets bigger, sadness gets bigger, you know?
I fight for simplicity, for balance, for patience.
But what happens when it's all going nowhere?
Help me fight. Don't watch me fight it and look at me go. Giddy up.
When I look back at you, don't ask me why I did what I did.
I was fighting.
Fighting for my dreams, fighting for the people I love. I fight it all. Upside the downside.
Say what you will about those imaginary wings you give me, but I'm fighting all by myself.
MY DAMN SELF.
Worry when I stop fighting. Worry when I'm not talking. Worry when I'm quiet. Worry because I've moved on.
Are you even fighting? Would you even fight for me?