It Happens on a random monday
Coming back late from an event, or late on a sunday night right before you're about to get on the plane and be frisked for the third time
You're driving, you're flying, you're sitting in an airport seat with boys from the team.
you're drinking stale coffee trying to stay awake.
you're explaining the fat welt on the side of you're neck to a confused stranger or a best friend.
you're coming back to the other life, the one without paintball, where noone understands why you do it.
you're tired, working off little sleep, and the question creeps up and you try to ignore it.
Why do i do this? why the travel? why the losses? the missed work; the missed school. hours of practice and the complaining girlfriend.
because the lore of living a paintball life is just oo potent.
and the products of the road, the travel, are forever in memories in strange lands with stranger people.
because at tournaments you feel as though you can live as loud as you want.
it's worth all the sacrifices its worth all the bullshit.
cause if you work hard enough, a sunday will roll around and you'll be in the huddle screaming, you're hand in, one of ten, playing for the world title.
and suddenly al of those cliche's you've ever heard make sense, and you are defined.
you say it to yourself and it means everything.
"I am a paintball player, and this moment right here is my life."
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