Thursday, May 7

More than a feeling,

But the knowing... the knowing that it is time to burn out or fade away.

I think it would have been different if I had been paid a ton of money to play ultimate.

Then again, it is unclear if that would've been a good thing.

It certainly wouldn't have led me here.

Was I ever Tim Duncan? Not a chance. But I was that me. That positive avatar of my self. Then these words from afar by someone else writing about someone else doing something else for some other reasons echoes in my mind:

"Now it’s a mental thing. When you know it’s time to go, it’s not about the games, the locker rooms, the camaraderie, the charter planes and the salaries anymore. All of that stuff makes you want to keep playing, actually.

But preparing to play — that’s the culprit.

It’s the mental burden that saps you. You start missing your freedom. You have to eat a certain way, sleep a certain way, prepare a certain way. You learn to dread those mornings after back-to-backs. You hate those early wakeup calls, hate being at the gym for hours by yourself, hate working on things that you already learned a million years ago. You already peaked, and you know it, so it’s all about killing yourself so you can be 70 percent as good as you once were. You have young dudes coming at you left and right, always looking to prove themselves, doing anything possible to put themselves on the map against you."

Yup. Fighting to be a fraction of what you were is not so much fun. 

But sometimes that impending loss or Sisyphean failure is all life is.  
Many times we get shown the next way only through a loss of self.

I just crossed over Randall's Island on Amtrak.
I'll be playing for Horse this year cor club Masters.

Is this an echo shouted over a canyon 
Or just a jest in a nightmare dungeon?

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