When is enough, enough?

Despite the new dart set and equipment, it seems I'm still shooting the same.  This is frustrating down to the bone, really.  Mentally, I have an idea of what I'm doing wrong.  My nerves get shaky and I'm not riding waves of momentum.  Enough of the imagery in each explanation. 

Let's try to make a list of things that help in consistency.  But before I do that, a part of me is asking if I'm cut out for performing under pressure.  I'm thinking about the other person too much.  Too many thoughts, because when I'm shooting alone it's too easy to concentrate- it's decompressed, dah. 

The definition of the word 'Practice' is this:

**** measuring the weakest spot in a given activity and thus, training your mind and body to react instantly to either attack or defend. 

I'm not going to change this definition!  Let us explore the context.  First of all, playing darts is not a war tactic.  Waging war against thy self is of course part of my personality, ha ha.  If anyone tells me to relax, then cheer cheer.  But man!  Tonight I kept losing, and that is just not fun to me.  I don't want to shoot well once in a while anymore, fuck!  Marginal advances are such burdens to your pride, and yet at the same time you feel humbled by it all.  Does that make any sense? 

When is enough, enough?  Darts is just a game, yes.  It's fun, but lately improving consistency is just a battle that I've been losing for about a year now.  I need to quantify my mistakes, to truely try and understand them.  Darts is a game of subtraction and addition, and I've been relying on the computer to tally my score.  Following what the computer says to shoot for to finish an 01-game.  Between sets, whenever I subtract or add I lose focus.  It's as simple as that.  The next level of play in my current ranking is like running to the next city back in cooking school.  But for now, I'm running toward some kind of light at the end of this god for saken hill~~~

Bottomless Bloke

Neon lights line the buildings outside and the cobblestones reflect a days worth of April showers.  This night has all the cliques of a night where a saxophone would play somewhere in the background.  Somewhere out there in this city light there's an ash tray with some bloke staring at the bottom of his glass deciding if one more would make everything a bit clearer.  Not knowing his happiness was sitting right there on his lapel, radiating with such splendor~ too bad his eyes didn't see that side of the spectrum, yet.  Who knows the things which we seek?  On the shores of New Caledonia a seashell has my name on it.  But good luck finding it.

Two boys are holding hands.  One hangs from the balcony window second guessing his leap to another world.  A white dove, like the one symbolizing peace shits on his forehead.  "Don't let go.  Pull yourself up," says the fair skinned boy.  Maybe his cowardly appeal to life paid off after all.  At least that's how the dangling pound of flesh felt when he stared down the 17th floor apartment window pane.  He was the wimp while the strength came from the guy holding him- the hero.  Two circles so different are merged in this moment of union, mano y mano.  Sweat dissipates into oblivion below the concrete and space between.

The glass ends up being filled once more, just this one more at this place in this city of excess.  The only thing moving are his ruddy fingers holding on to what's his only connection to the bar.  Where's his hero? He contemplates this word 'hero', rearranging the letters in the hopes for an answer.  He ends up adding a W to his equation, buying an extra tomorrow.  Moans and sighs here on out of these slippery roads.

He manages to laugh at some skeleton umbrella on the cobblestone.  The 17th floor key twists the lock free.  Three flickers before the toothbrush reveals itself, that and the mirror.  Lipstick stains his lapel, but he doesn't see it.