Perseverance
"The arrow's reach is the draw's ache"
The Wound
The tension trembles in your bicep. The string bites. Shoulder blades press together until the muscle between them screams. The bow wants to close. Your body wants to let it. Every tendon begs for the snap that ends this. You hold. The bow holds you back. The draw deepens. Your elbow slides past the point of return. Your anchor settles against your jaw, and the pressure becomes hush – the held breath before thunder. The string you pull against is the only force that can throw the arrow. Your fingers open. The string whips forward. The arrow is gone. You exhale. Your arm drops, suddenly light, as you watch distance collapse.
The Path
This is the flight you feared would never come. You feared the taut string, mistook the bent wood for a cage. Now you understand: the bow was never the cage. The flinch was. You fit nock to string. You pull. The wood groans. Sweat stings your eyes. Your sight wavers over the target. The bow trembles. The string's complaint thins to a hum – taut, gathered. There. The exact instant the draw stops becoming power and starts becoming damage. Your fingers open. The release is so clean your mind arrives late. The target shudders. In your grip, the bow is no longer cage. Only reach.
The Shadow
The hand can fail the bow by releasing too soon, or never releasing at all. She held once until something deeper than muscle gave way – trust that tension would resolve into flight. Her hands learnt the flinch before her mind could argue. Now, each time the string cuts into her fingers, her hands spring open before the ache arrives. She nocks another. Pulls. Releases early, every time. The arrows fly clean and short. Her hands stay uncalloused. She spends her life striking only what requires nothing of her. She dies with a thousand arrows strewn between her and every target that ever mattered – each one released a breath too soon, her body still flinching from a teacher turned to dust. ⧫ The Ever-Drawing learns a different lesson from the same string. He pulls – and holds. Not yet, he whispers. He falls in love with the threshold. As long as he holds, the arrow stays perfect. As long as he holds, he cannot miss. He has watched arrows fly. They land, and then they are only sticks in dirt. The wood warps and the limbs forget their spring. The anchor blooms a crescent bruise along his jaw. At dusk he stands alone, bow drawn, eyes watering. His arm has stopped shaking. It has simply locked. They find him at dawn, still standing, still drawn. He has preserved the potential of the shot by refusing to take it.
The Cut
What arrow will you die still holding?
PERSEVERANCE
The arrow's reach is the draw's ache
Perseverance
"The arrow's reach is the draw's ache"
The Wound
The tension trembles in your bicep. The string bites. Shoulder blades press together until the muscle between them screams. The bow wants to close. Your body wants to let it. Every tendon begs for the snap that ends this. You hold. The bow holds you back. The draw deepens. Your elbow slides past the point of return. Your anchor settles against your jaw, and the pressure becomes hush – the held breath before thunder. The string you pull against is the only force that can throw the arrow. Your fingers open. The string whips forward. The arrow is gone. You exhale. Your arm drops, suddenly light, as you watch distance collapse.
The Path
This is the flight you feared would never come. You feared the taut string, mistook the bent wood for a cage. Now you understand: the bow was never the cage. The flinch was. You fit nock to string. You pull. The wood groans. Sweat stings your eyes. Your sight wavers over the target. The bow trembles. The string's complaint thins to a hum – taut, gathered. There. The exact instant the draw stops becoming power and starts becoming damage. Your fingers open. The release is so clean your mind arrives late. The target shudders. In your grip, the bow is no longer cage. Only reach.
The Shadow
The hand can fail the bow by releasing too soon, or never releasing at all. She held once until something deeper than muscle gave way – trust that tension would resolve into flight. Her hands learnt the flinch before her mind could argue. Now, each time the string cuts into her fingers, her hands spring open before the ache arrives. She nocks another. Pulls. Releases early, every time. The arrows fly clean and short. Her hands stay uncalloused. She spends her life striking only what requires nothing of her. She dies with a thousand arrows strewn between her and every target that ever mattered – each one released a breath too soon, her body still flinching from a teacher turned to dust. ⧫ The Ever-Drawing learns a different lesson from the same string. He pulls – and holds. Not yet, he whispers. He falls in love with the threshold. As long as he holds, the arrow stays perfect. As long as he holds, he cannot miss. He has watched arrows fly. They land, and then they are only sticks in dirt. The wood warps and the limbs forget their spring. The anchor blooms a crescent bruise along his jaw. At dusk he stands alone, bow drawn, eyes watering. His arm has stopped shaking. It has simply locked. They find him at dawn, still standing, still drawn. He has preserved the potential of the shot by refusing to take it.
The Cut
What arrow will you die still holding?