(this didn’t start off a poem.song/whatever but it just transfigured itself into one in the process of writing eh well xD)
During exercise, a muscle is stretched and strained and taut and tight and degenerated and what not.
Especially in cases subject to strenuosity.
The common, tried-and-tested go-to method for effective muscle recovery after strenuous muscle exertion we’ve got
Cold Press, Hot Press
Sure there’s warmth in heat packs and all that.
But none of those are applied for the purpose of recovery.
Only for relief. Up next; the slats.
Now the heart is a muscle.
Going cold after your heart’s been rippled or ripped is equivocally discouraged, of course.
But that’s only because the inherent human pursuit of happiness
Or rather; a pursuit of a paucity of negativity
Has convinced our vain species that
Warmth is the only plausible eventuality.
Let go of love and forget looking forward
Because that undermines all your recuperation.
Us soup boys;
Symbols-Ambassadors of the Southern Tamil Nation.
One thing unites us;
It’s this induced, justified misogyny
And a heart gone bust.
But even smokers keep going
Although they know they’re their own agents of killing.
(I have absolutely got to add that the premise of this post – as it popped into my steamy jet of rumination under a hot shower – immensely surprised me; perhaps beyond anything else this entire calendar year. Why? Because I’m no misogynist nor someone who dis-advocates love despite his celibacy backed by reason and heavy thought. I may never want to ever fall in love but I sure do keep that to myself – usually. I’ll add that the whole recovery, Hot–Cold thing may come from the fact that my very injury-prone muscles and a couple of ice baths were put to the test following my school’s Annual Sports Meet a week ago)