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Strings of a Tennis Racket Like a Spider's Web
October 26, 2022
Here I stand
Racket held loosely,
the top
scratching across white-lined asphalt.
Annoyed.
Resigned and annoyed.
Not mad,
definitely not mad.
Wondering
how much I’ll be made to endure
Wondering
when someone will tell me
that I’ve done enough.
Drag me off the court
because I can’t do it myself.
Does a fly
trapped in a spider’s web
try to break free?
Or does it surrender,
Go quietly,
Knowing
the futility
Knowing
how much what’s coming
will hurt.
But flies have an excuse.
Flies don’t have mouths.
A fly can’t tell the spider,
“I don’t want this.”
“This is too much for me.”
A fly can’t say,
“Why am I even here?”
“I want to give up.”
But I can.
Yet I’m no better
than a lowly insect.
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I don't play tennis for love of the sport anymore. I do it because I've been told I need to do it. And sometimes, the will of others is more powerful than what I truly want.