Friday, 16 October 2015

Your Body goes to War

In poetry, your body is never your body. It’s the vast skyline across which collisions cause the northern lights; it’s the soft caress that holds everything together. It’s a metaphor, and it is what they need it to be. It is love and pain and above everything else victory. Here’s a metaphor for your body- It’s an army. You are at war and you have given up. 

Did you know that your entire body works together to ensure oxygen reaches you; that carbon dioxide is taken away? You underneath your skin choose to feed you with life than poison.

The white blood cells spread throughout your body burn down themselves to protect you. You are on fire even under attack. Your skin is always on duty, always guarding, always protecting your troops. You body is on alert, one word from you and it is ready to fight. It takes 20 seconds for red blood cells to travel through your entire body, to sound the alarm. Just give the word. 

You have 206 bones, 600 muscles and 22 organs at your service and for you they are more than enough to win a million wars. You are made up of 100 trillion cells, nearly 300 times more than the stars in our galaxy and if this were a metaphor about how your body is a galaxy, every single one of them would be stars. Femur, the bone in your thigh is hollow, all by itself and yet it is the largest, strongest bone in your body. Your eyes may be two in number but sharp and sensitive, on the lookout. And every day, every minute it eradicates your foes in large amounts. With kidneys and lungs, skin, liver and urethra, no ordinary adversary stands a chance.

Like soldiers in trenches, it’s hopeful. It dreams every night when the shift changes and it dreams of a beautiful world. And these dreams make it kind. It’s not always tough; the hardest part of your body can be corroded by the simplest of attacks. And the strongest muscle isn’t out there fighting; no the tongue makes sure the food for everyone else is up to the mark. 

In poetry, your body isn’t your body and this isn’t poetry. But your body is still an army sustaining itself for a war you gave up. It’s patient, it’s disciplined and it will wait for you to come back and take charge. It won’t win every battle but if you command it so, it will die trying. And isn’t that some sort of a victory.

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