A poem that marks one of the first days I ever felt real hope. It was a few months before I properly started the mission that led to my losing 67kg. It was just a silly little note I banged out on Facebook, trying to put outlines on a new feeling I was trying to understand. I still feel it sometimes. And when I do, It’s Good.
Fuck me, that’s starting to hurt.
Don’t stop. Never stop. Cannot stop. Must not stop.
Eventually it will stop on its own.
And that’s when you fucking stop.
In fact, since there is a limit,
let’s stare it defiantly in the eyes and see just how tough it thinks it is.
Bitchy little limit-face!
I defy them on either side of zero.
Good limits. Bad limits.
Limits meant to bind me or protect me from myself.
Let’s see how much i can take, and how much of me you can take.
They only represent an idea of something, and not the thing itself.
Like talking about a duck does not magically conjour Daffy or Donald.
Only in the mind, perhaps, but God knows that’s not real.
If it was real, i’d be a sultan.
Jesus leading the people out of their self-perpetuated mental prisons.
About 5’10”, 77kg, working at an insurance company, excited that Live are touring again.
But it’s not.
I am not.
And it is good.
One of those words that deserves a bit more respect than it gets, i say.
Good that it burns.
Good that it hurts.
Good that some weak fucker thinks there’s a limit.
Gives me something to aim at.
A heart to bite a chunk out of.
A reason to try harder.
To be harder.
To feel harder.
To achieve this impossible task.
To break this unending curse.
Or at least to gallantly treat the symptoms.
It might be impossible.
It probably is.
But there you go again with your fucking limits.
And after all,
I brought the veins back,
And i’m growing more.
In my wrists this time.
I wonder where next.
I’m not sure whether there’s a limit,
But i’m gonna damn sure try and find out.
And it’s good.
Gord Laws, 2008.