Anger management
Apr. 3rd, 2011 11:50 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sotongeistooc.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsThe punchbag flew back on its chain, recoiling under the sheer force of the blow. Flexing and returning back as Newton demanded, again a fist crashed squarely into it, sending it bouncing in the other direction.
He continued to pound it with relentless, merciless ferocity. His knuckles were already raw from the barrage of punches he’d hurled, his shoulders aching from where he’d thrown in a combination of elbow hits and full-on barges. This may have been closer to rugby than Queensbury rules, but he knew the value of having a range of moves.
He was sweating profusely, wrapped up in layer upon layer of cumbersome, swealtering neoprene, with weights woven into the rubbery mesh at key points to make everything far more difficult than it needed to be. That was what practice was about, after all.
Finally out of breath, he caught the bag, and walked over to turn off his exercise track, silencing the Kanye West track filling the room. He took one look at his knuckles, and shook his head. There was no need, at all, to be so damn angry. Nor was there any reason to hate himself for being angry, either.
Science was cold, efficient, about equations and precise, rational thought. He knew that emotions were just nervous impulses, faulty synaptic transmissions of the neurotransmitters 5-HT, GABA, Noradrenaline and dopamine. He knew the surges through his body were triggered by cortisol release, starting a stress pathway to ensure his body was equipped for whatever it needed to do. He knew the film of tears in his eyes had pooled in a biological mistake that had somehow caused his species to cry when under intense negative emotion.
He knew science didn’t know a damn about how he felt.
He picked up a medicine ball, weighed it up for a few moments in his hands, and hurled it into the wall. It made a satisfying thud, its imprint forced into the plaster. Then he headed for a shower.
He continued to pound it with relentless, merciless ferocity. His knuckles were already raw from the barrage of punches he’d hurled, his shoulders aching from where he’d thrown in a combination of elbow hits and full-on barges. This may have been closer to rugby than Queensbury rules, but he knew the value of having a range of moves.
He was sweating profusely, wrapped up in layer upon layer of cumbersome, swealtering neoprene, with weights woven into the rubbery mesh at key points to make everything far more difficult than it needed to be. That was what practice was about, after all.
Finally out of breath, he caught the bag, and walked over to turn off his exercise track, silencing the Kanye West track filling the room. He took one look at his knuckles, and shook his head. There was no need, at all, to be so damn angry. Nor was there any reason to hate himself for being angry, either.
Science was cold, efficient, about equations and precise, rational thought. He knew that emotions were just nervous impulses, faulty synaptic transmissions of the neurotransmitters 5-HT, GABA, Noradrenaline and dopamine. He knew the surges through his body were triggered by cortisol release, starting a stress pathway to ensure his body was equipped for whatever it needed to do. He knew the film of tears in his eyes had pooled in a biological mistake that had somehow caused his species to cry when under intense negative emotion.
He knew science didn’t know a damn about how he felt.
He picked up a medicine ball, weighed it up for a few moments in his hands, and hurled it into the wall. It made a satisfying thud, its imprint forced into the plaster. Then he headed for a shower.
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