The ascerbic taste of a barbed heart being suffocated causes the mind to fill with vitriolic thoughts. Lingering in the air, the scent of venomous emotions cover the face with creases of pain and regret.
Torture is present, the reluctant acceptance of releasing grip and letting go. To allow the meandering waves of life to make their journey without hindrance or influence. To liberate oneself to the mercy of none; to thrash at the void and to cry into nothing.
The impact is violent, the descent tantalisingly graceful. The thrill of success only washed away with the tide of realisation. To know you are there, to know you have found. To know you have failed, to know it cannot be.
Once a glorious fanfare of joy and jubilence, reduced to the tattered shreds of fibrous feeling. Sitting there motionless, numb and powerless, you speak out to no one, you speak out to all. You accept your consciousness, you accept your decision.
You look up, you look in. You release and you escape.
When a guy lets go of a girl, he has to release his grip, let go and cry. This is protect his mind, his heart and his sanity. To, as best he can, minimise damage to his being and his soul. To minimise damage to himself
When a surfer is aware they are about to fall, they will push themselves away from their board, to release their grip from safety. This is to protect themselves, to avoid impact with the only thing that can save them. To minimise damage to themselves.
When a racing driver is aware of an impending impact, they will release their grip of the steering wheel, exhale and try to relax. This is to protect their body and to minimise damage to themselves.
When a trumpeter has fucked up, missed a note or missed an entry, they will… they will… nope, run out of analogies. A trumpeter will continue, regardless and without thought. This is to mimimise damage to themselves, of course.