Nobody thinks of the rope.
Everyone thinks of which side will win.
The rope.
Pulled in every direction. With coarse hands and soft hands. With might and with tact. Sometimes gently, and sometimes roughly.
But it is pulled. Always pulled. It was made to be pulled. To bear the weight, and uphold the load. Worn out with time, but never fading. Never dormant. Never serene. Its destiny determined by the forces around it. By the resilience of every shadow of doubt or second thought.
And the rope injures.
And leaves marks.
Scarring the skin. Sometimes seen, and sometimes within.
The harder you tug at the rope, the deeper the cut.
With every win, there's always a loss.
Everyone thinks of which side will win.
The rope.
Pulled in every direction. With coarse hands and soft hands. With might and with tact. Sometimes gently, and sometimes roughly.
But it is pulled. Always pulled. It was made to be pulled. To bear the weight, and uphold the load. Worn out with time, but never fading. Never dormant. Never serene. Its destiny determined by the forces around it. By the resilience of every shadow of doubt or second thought.
And the rope injures.
And leaves marks.
Scarring the skin. Sometimes seen, and sometimes within.
The harder you tug at the rope, the deeper the cut.
With every win, there's always a loss.
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