Know Thyself

The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses.

Behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road.

Long before I dance under those lights.

Theory is not mastery. Repetition is.

If its systematic you can improve it, over and over again.

Muscle memory, miling, the neural connections go from forming a little string, to turning it into a cable wire.

But what I’ve learned is you don’t control everything in life.

You don’t control what you look like, or how to keep your heart beating, your lungs breathing, and your body from degenerating.

You don’t control who comes into your life and you certainty don’t control all of the lessons that the universe has in store for you.

So you can’t possibly account for how everything will work out, but you know your destiny.

You know what you want and you know why you want it on the deepest level.

And thoughts you can control.

Thoughts contain matter. Thoughts influence actions.

So the self talk is not hubris, or false pride, but its affirmation.

Its an understanding who you really are.

Who else is going to tell you, you are the greatest?

But you always carry your humility with you.

And you carry the same will to act when you are winning or even when you feel like you are dying.

That’s the mind of a psychological warrior.

But at some point the purpose is in a different intensity.

Letting go can be just as beautiful.

The legacy cannot be complete without it.

Everything that has a beginning has an end.

To appreciate life and all its glory, it must come full circle.

But here’s the distinction:

You are gone but never dead. You are away but never forgotten.

The message leaves an imprint forever.

How you lived; be true to yourself and to truth itself.

Its polarizing yet unifying.

Its tough yet gentle.

Bold yet humble.

And now the world needs a new champion.

Not only in the ring, but outside of it.

Who is going to step up and follow what had to be done?

Who is going to perpetuate the legacy?

An authentic life is a full life.

Know thyself and greatness will be yours.

— But if you even dream of beating me, you’d better wake up and apologize. —

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The Ambiguous Intensity of Eye Contact

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Opia

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So much can be said in a glance.

Such ambiguous intensity, both invasive and vulnerable—glittering black, bottomless and opaque.

The eye is a keyhole, through which the world pours in and a world spills out.

And for a few seconds, you can peek through into a vault, that contains everything they are.

Whether the eyes are the windows of the soul or the doors of perception, it doesn’t matter: you’re still standing on the outside of the house.

Eye contact isn’t really contact at all. It’s only ever a glance, a near miss, that you can only feel as it slips past you.

There’s so much we keep in the back room.

We offer up a sample of who we are, of what we think people want us to be. But so rarely do we stop to look inside, and let our eyes adjust, and see what’s really there.

Because you too are peering out from behind your own door.

You put yourself out there, trying to decide how much of the world to let in. It’s all too easy for others to size you up, and carry on their way.

They can see you more clearly than you ever could. Yours is the only vault you can’t see into, that you can’t size up in an instant.

So we’re all just exchanging glances, trying to tell each other who we are, trying to catch a glimpse of ourselves, feeling around in the darkness.

The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

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