Losing.

Losing.

Knees bent, hands on the caps. The voices swirling in the mind, the pounding of the head, sweat dripping down the tip of the nose, or is it blood. Smearing it with the back of a hand; pushing the frame up. Standing tall, taking the first steps; stumbling at first but the body is resilient. The wounds once exposed and red, now faint and pink; the cool wind brushing against them. Reminding the weary traveler about the thorn field the trek took them through. Placebo taken, coursing through the empty veins kick starting the mind. Tunnel vision hits, one path now; it ascends from the dark valley which has become a familiar and comforting hideaway, but no more. Ascension on to the playing field, shedding the final layers, the  exfoliation of the dead skin. A wick of the eye, a curl of the lip, a middle finger to those behind. A disregard to the previous version of the lone traveler, giving up on the ideology of reputation. In taking the dirt, taking the shots; no more losing. Private and discreet while those drenched in bliss are public and loud. Chin up, game face on, snapping back to reality and striding forward.