âťť yoga rap battle âťž byunghun & ahyoung
This body felt ancient, skeleton sealed with resin, chasms making brittle bones in a spine convex, a serenade for Flora weaving through his hair. A battle of wills plagued him since he gained the wherewithal to trade money for processed poison, the means a bout of frenzied courage and exasperation; including notes of the behavior of maddened citizens and tobacco achieved from the recent trip to Busan. A cigarette limp between left hand appendages, the cold whispering against skin left blue, scaled, and outside youths chortle and bellow profanities. He prefers labeling the inhalation of chemicals as a coping mechanism or at least, habitual, a ritual ingrained in his life to alleviate stress and purge his body of negative energy, those obsessive thoughts spiraling in his head, the mental asphyxiation.
It’s mockery of innocence, these clouds of white ascended in the glory of n-nitrosamines and formaldehyde, dissipated past his lips and tainting the air of spring. “I need to quit smoking.” Byunghun breathes out, the proposition, the motivation, escaping from his lungs as he smothers the embers on the outer walls, ashes drawn away with the wind. This composure he maintained was a load of bullshit, and if he hadn’t been exhausted from the danger room sleep would be an abstract thought in the hold of insomnia, and he knew this, eyelids heavy at an hour so early, adhering to his planned foundation of an ameliorated schedule. Tossing out the newly purchased package of Mevius’ didn’t make the cut, kept on the windowsill a few cylinders short, and he seals a recently discovered small room, in which he exists in alone.
Finicky, he smothers bumps in the yoga mat, polyvinyl chlorine dyed in a hue of pastel green, only a composition written by Sergei Rachmaninoff acting to placate him despite the past half hour wasted on stretches and ashtanga poses. “This is dumb, I’m amazed at the level of deplorable I’m at right now. Really, what…” May his mutters contain self-loathing venom at their purest, extracted from memories taunting him with instructors and their vexatious equanimity, but more torturous were reminders of previous achievements in flexibility and balance. With the top of his head pressed against the floor, he cannot disregard how feeble his biceps feel alongside the skull, or the reedy legs before him, approaching his face in steps hastened – it’s a contortion, and he cringes from nociception pain burning above his abdomen.
Over a year ago he had acquired a talent for ease in elasticity, could stand and bend himself backwards, take ahold of his ankles, and now he can’t even manage a simple headstand. Byunghun’s brow furrows, pupils wholeheartedly fixated on the rise of his legs, drawing his right knee to his chest, and with air clutched tightly, he collapses onto the floor, rap lyrics overwhelming sensory perception and rattling the window panes. “Oh my – Goddamn – why is this happening?” In a series of bewildered half-thoughts he sputters, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling, a verse of “I don't give a fuck about your ratchet ass lames. You can suck a dick, I'm all about fame.” bringing a tremble to the pack of cigarettes, consequently knocking it off its designated resting place, and therefore, during this apparent eight in the morning rap battle he truly wonders if he really is in Hell.
