Primal- A Short Story

“Eugh” I repeatedly hit into the punching bag, I ventilate all my anger… all my resentment, all my pain. I transfer all of it into energy and into transfer that into my punches allowing it all to seep out and break away from me when I hit the bag.

There is nothing worse than self-loathing; there is no pain someone can push onto you that rivals the torture of constantly being at war with oneself. The trouble with self-loathing is that it always ends up twisted and deformed, it moves into depression or worse a complete breakdown of self. I hate myself

Or at least I hate some form of myself. I hate the part of me that leeches onto others and I hate the me that is weak and pitiful, most of all I hate the part of me that is always self-certain, that is positive that is

“AUGH!”  my right leg flies up and solidly my shin hits the bag centrally, and the bag moves just that once.

The constant battle I fight with myself is only made worse by the constant disgust I have for others whilst simultaneously being jealous of them. In this world, or at least within my mind, I am an anomaly.

Nothing about me seems right or in place, no part of me feels like it is correctly designed- not even my legs of which I am so proud of for their long elegance, or my hands with which I could never live without. I feel out of place, out of time as if I was never meant to be where I am.

Only when it is me and the punching bag do I feel as if I am truly there, for when there is the bag in front of me I can remove everything else from my mind and then all that is left is raw emotion.

“Nahhhgh” I am constantly changing with each punch- left, right, left, right. When I am punching no part of me is dominant, all that I am is primal. Evolution does not challenge me when I am focused for I can be an ancient beast and merely seek the primal urge of bloodlust for as long as I want.

If I punch and kick for long enough I forget all my worries, I become awash in happiness and sweat, I become someone who I do not loath but seek to be.

When all is over I have stripped away all of the guttural trash and layers that have weighed me down and I am left as the base. I am what I was always meant to be, I am what I started as, I am a clean slate and an empty path.

However the base cannot last forever for once the sweat dries and I wash away my work the layers come back- thicker and heavier than before. Once I am naked and can see all that I truly am I must realise that I am no longer able to go back, there is only forward and there is no base for me to return to. When I reach that realisation the self-loathing increases.

“HYAAAAAAAAAAA” my fist hits pure emptiness for there is no bag there for me to punch. Without the bag I cannot shed and when I cannot shed I am forced to bottle up my anger, my rage, my bloodlust. And should all be bottled up for too long it will explode and once again I shall be primal.