You see, I loved my muscles.
I loved them so much I designated myself as their protector: they became my priority and my sole focus. I rose in rank to primary and solitary caretaker, and with that esteemed position came many tasks. I maintained constant supervision, chastised them for disobedience and neglecting responsibilities, and congratulated them for fulfilling their duties and meeting my expectations.
I did it all out of love, of course.
But, as with any overprotective guardian, I was afraid of them. I was afraid of my muscles because I knew that no matter how tightly I clutched at control, they held a greater power over me and could destroy my carefully laid plans on a whim, without a semblance of warning. They were volatile, fickle bastards, those lean, toned, tight muscles were. They demanded all my time and were quick to envy. Jealousy turned them nasty.
I’m not yet free of their intoxicating grasp. In fact, I have yet even to acknowledge the possibility of a reality without those little whispering companions, always in rebellion and straining at their reins without a single notion of their real desire and direction. Aimlessly pulsing, they can’t tell right from wrong or recognize their own boundaries.
I won’t miss them.
Well, maybe I will. But I will be encouraged to make new friends, I know. I’m pretty social, actually, and some people even tell me I’m funny and occasionally fun.
And I was a bad friend, too, I won’t deny it. I think maybe we just weren’t right for each other. We both deserve better.
I’ll be glad to be rid of them, though there will inevitably be frequent nostalgia and tearful goodbyes. Different people have different roles to play and lessons to teach, and my old muscles have taught me that strength is irreversible.