WARNING: Not the most vague piece I've written but close. Author assumes no responsibility for resulting brain damage...
Stages of Combat
The first level: (affable skirmish)
…contains all the markers of play-fighting with the edge dulled by the tease, like a caress on a sleep-numbed limb. Sensation crossing a terrain of pins and needles brings mild discomfort but no lasting damage. It's eager combat with friendly fire. Without attachment, they would not expend breath that solves nothing but tedium. This is a rousing from sleep, an awakening of temperaments just enough to pump blood and rile emotions from a place of pleasant notice. A brawl employing nothing more than the skill to bicker and pardon. The monotony of existing among the dead is broken, routine dissuaded by creating rituals of their own; verbal warfare with gentle bullets. And what is meant to alleviate stress uncovers a deeper tension that converts glances and grins to something quietly raw. Words are the medium and the painting features all that is both obvious and subtle about two combatants gripped in the pretense of conflict for the prize of an honest smile.
The second level: (singular domination)
…arrives on obstinate wings, swooping down into a moment and snapping at the ears of its prey. It begins in the labor of frustration and is pushed into the world with the tantrum instincts of a newborn. Screaming to be heard but lacking the finesse of polite communication. The architect of the argument will lay a foundation in the past, in the perceived and in the private. In heated progression, it becomes less a volley than one-sided target practice, one striking out while the other absorbs the hit and makes the apologies to the audience. Time constructs nearly sufficient room for their trigger dispositions and when anger infects one, the other must choose quarantine or contamination. Still, the crowded canvas of their connection allows forgiveness before it is sought.
The third level: (locking horns)
…is a prison protected by barbed wire intent and the sort of fickle fuse typically reserved for enemies. It grows into a joint exhibit of armory, both sides lashing out with no weapon so cunning as the invisible word. Every ancient misdeed is dredged from the well and spread for reexamination, every assumption cast carelessly upon the fire. Mutual history is the most potent fuel, readily accessible and quickly combustible. On a tight battlefield, opposing sides position themselves for an optimal view of weakness and provocation prompts the exploitation. In these moments, it is not about gaining ground but maintaining superior distance. The picture that a partnership steadily crafts will earn a new and bitter fray with each hasty indictment. But resolution comes with the aging of hours, rarely through words but often with touch, a treaty signed in sighs.
The fourth level: (two against all)
…is comprised of all the concessions required for the advancement of unity, a gain of paradise from the soil of mortal fears. Because the merger has placed the easel on which their completion is perched so far beyond interference that they themselves can never battle callously enough to taint it. Secure and untouchable as the sunrise. Time dismantles the armies inside their veins, deconstructs the battlefield beneath their skin. The incentive for combat is gone; to fight the other is to fight oneself. All wars are external now, the arsenal aimed outwardly to ward off those who threaten the sum. A lifetime spent gnawing on inner conflict has prepared them for this and when left to their own whims, the weapon of words does not exist. They have carved out deeper souls to carry the smiles, the forgiveness and the sighs. The peaceful need no armor.
