In a previous blog post I nearly wrote ‘I don’t like to fight’, when I had to stop mid-flow to consider the disturbing nonchalance of the lie I was about to commit. Although the fight to which I was referring was contextual, it was a revelation to me that I could not state that I did not like fighting.
I have always considered the human capacity for fighting a positive trait, not because I enjoy results like war, anguish, turmoil, injury, and suffering; but because it is such an effective and long-lasting strategy for evolution. Combat sports remain a conundrum distinctly separate; probably because I never engaged in competitive fighting outside the training. As a voyeur they do not appeal to the instinct of fighting, but merely as examples of competition, skill, strategy, and discipline. I might wonder whether a related conundrum may be a symptom of the warmonger.
There is no true desire in me to fight, but there was a time in my past when I used to fight relatively quite often. I have a nostalgic attachment to fighting. Even some memories of receiving a ‘good-hiding’ are warming and compelling. The fight initiated a rare time dilation, 2D clarity, and positive intent that I, personally, have not experienced at any other time. Whether this experience would manifest itself in quite the same way now is an active deterrent.
I must acknowledge the pseudo-halcyon nature of the nostalgia though, as it is subjective and a perversion of the truth. I remember the adrenaline rush of getting kicked to bits, feeling no pain, grappling for submission, lashing out animalistically during pointless dogmatic nurtured race-hooliganisms that were notable of the time and place of my youth. Conversely, I am objectively impeded by an inability to fully appreciate or comprehend the truly chronic and cruel ramifications. Unlike some of my peers, I am privileged not to have been left permanently debilitated, or dead, as a result of experiencing those primitive feelings supplied by the fight.
All that said, I haven’t used violence for a number of years now. The last time was with a clumsy pickpocket, and who I assume was his girlfriend, on the platform of Chancery Lane tube station. That was impulsive, and I didn’t ache back then. I don’t think I have the stomach, or the back, to readily subject myself to it anymore. I am afraid of damage. Yet, I cannot say I am afraid of the fight. It is evident, due to my (was) secret willing, that I most certainly suffer a moderate degree of cognitive dissonance.
The fight these days, in the first world at least, are for hearts and minds, and it seems patronising to oneself to resort to physical violence. There are no unrestrained batons or firearms trying to subvert my freedoms (yet), and therefore anything other than pacifist activism is unnecessary.