Carve Magazine Carve 200 Edição anterior

You stare.
It stares back at you. Deep into your soul. Smug in the knowledge it is chillingly damp and gritty. It is the master here.
You wish you’d remembered to take it out of the car and shower the damn thing off. Maybe even let it dry out for the first time in weeks.
Like you do after every session. You’re a terrible person.
This lack of care borders on neglect, nothing deserves to be stamped into the mud. To be scraped over rocks. To be a discreet toilet. To be an all-weather protector with little thanks. To be left dirty and stinking in a cheap builder’s bucket from Morrisons in the nearly frozen boot of your car.
No wonder it wants to hurt you. To make you squeal and yelp in discomfort. The sharpest grit cunningly concealed in the dark recesses you can’t see. When lovingly looked after and dry your trusty armour slides on like a dream. Suiting up makes you feel like a salty Batman ready to slide some waves. When wet, cold and minging, it is a war of attrition. Easy it is not. Cold fingertips veering towards frostbite as you claw and fight each centimetre of progress. You reap what you sow in this life, and your faithful friend is putting you through this drawn-out torture, not to mention exposure, as a message. Things could be so different if you took care. If you made an effort in the relationship. Because you neglect, because you’re too busy scrolling through shite on your phone, because there’s never enough time in the day - yet there is to surf of course - to look after your state of the art gimp suit, it now hates you.