The body is an old machine, full of redundancies, full of crude mechanisms that do their work with a kind of blind insistence.
The flesh is not elegant. It does not trust you to listen, to be wise. It does not reason. It swells. When twisted, the leg blooms thick with blood and fluid, pressing against itself, an aching prison of flesh, not to heal but to stop. A crude measure, a thing left over from some ancient calculus where movement was the enemy and stillness the only cure.
It does not know we have learned better ways. It does not know we can make splints, set bones, brace limbs. It does not care that we are capable of understanding. It treats us like beasts, because that is what it was built for. For animals that cannot bind their wounds, cannot gauge their own limits. It stops the motion by force, not reason.
And in doing so, it prolongs the very damage it seeks to mend.
Pain would have been enough. A warning, a whisper of caution. But pain is not trusted. The body assumes stupidity, assumes an animal’s reckless need to run. So it swells, because swelling does not argue. It does not negotiate. It seizes the joint and locks it down. A brute-force solution, primitive as stone.
And yet, it is not even good at what it does. A poor splint. An overreaction. It crushes the muscle, strangles the circulation, stifles its own repair. The injury festers under its own weight, robbed of movement, robbed of flow. A mechanism built for creatures that heal by waiting, not by thinking. A leftover. A relic of an earlier age.
But the body does not care for irony. It does what it was made to do. It is slow to change. It will be thousands of years before it learns we are no longer the creatures it was designed for.
If it learns at all.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Jan 27, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1883749980902732121?t=yoW9vBW5Oh21VIdLyMmdNA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2577
The flesh is not elegant. It does not trust you to listen, to be wise. It does not reason. It swells. When twisted, the leg blooms thick with blood and fluid, pressing against itself, an aching prison of flesh, not to heal but to stop. A crude measure, a thing left over from some ancient calculus where movement was the enemy and stillness the only cure.
It does not know we have learned better ways. It does not know we can make splints, set bones, brace limbs. It does not care that we are capable of understanding. It treats us like beasts, because that is what it was built for. For animals that cannot bind their wounds, cannot gauge their own limits. It stops the motion by force, not reason.
And in doing so, it prolongs the very damage it seeks to mend.
Pain would have been enough. A warning, a whisper of caution. But pain is not trusted. The body assumes stupidity, assumes an animal’s reckless need to run. So it swells, because swelling does not argue. It does not negotiate. It seizes the joint and locks it down. A brute-force solution, primitive as stone.
And yet, it is not even good at what it does. A poor splint. An overreaction. It crushes the muscle, strangles the circulation, stifles its own repair. The injury festers under its own weight, robbed of movement, robbed of flow. A mechanism built for creatures that heal by waiting, not by thinking. A leftover. A relic of an earlier age.
But the body does not care for irony. It does what it was made to do. It is slow to change. It will be thousands of years before it learns we are no longer the creatures it was designed for.
If it learns at all.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Jan 27, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1883749980902732121?t=yoW9vBW5Oh21VIdLyMmdNA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2577
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