counting days makes my hands hurt

it's like you're playing a game on the playground. as if the sand is quicksand, what you don't know is that it really is safe, and anyway, you're completely afraid of the quicksand, or at least you don't want to lose the game. you get on the monkey bars and you hang there, and as your palms start to sweat you adjust your grip, and now your hands hurt and you don't know why it's worth it, but somehow you feel like it really is. for four seasons you hang on the monkey bars, in and out of thought, but all the while knowing what you wanted could maybe be achieved if you hung on a little longer. let me tell you something, in 100 ways i could tell you he's worth it: not the win, or the satisfaction of a bar well grasped, but the flame that sticks, no matter how altered, because it holds something so pure, and undeniable, and real, even if i'm a child on the monkey bars.