...
Tigger sits, alone, solitary-will he be the victor?
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The father sits, facing down his son, as his son stares down yet another weak excuse for a glass of milk. It is a contest of will. Who will emerge the champion?
Will youthful exhuberance push forward, ignoring the pain? Ignoring as the lactic acid builds the burn? As the burning need to run and scream and shout leaps from his body like a static charge? Can he withstand the mounting pressure?
Will age and experience take the battle? Maturity in the form of quiet resolution, biding time until his opponent, his charge, his first born son finally cannot contain the fire within.
The boy waits, energy coursing and crackling around him, like the sound of bacon in a hot frying pan. The air around him sizzles with anticipation of the release.
The man counts minutes, wondering to himself how productive his day could be if only his firstborn would revert to ingrained patterns of consumption and resume participating in the natural order of things.
The sound of undisciplined power rings throughout the halls, wordless sounds, consonants, vowels, growls, grunts and outright blood-curdling screams as the boy attempts to cope with the energy that is raging through his small wiry body.
The younger child bounces around the house, mindful of this new...freedom, this uncommon gap in oversight. He .. touches things, new things, shiny things, dark, dark things. It is a mystical moment as he reaches out, changing the ontological structure of everything he touches, changing the relationship to the rest of the cosmos with one small nudge. Such power.
...
Time passes...who will stand?
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