Under the bar on the humps of my Trapezius I feel my body compress at it’s finest. Grip-heavy ’round the barbell. Squeezing with full tension and attention to it. There’s no outside world thought or worry at the slightest. I’m as present as I physically can come: Fluid.
I’m in love lust with how the body defends itself with every pelt and white or red blood cell. In every tale of my body from the yellow-stained calluses to the bruises on my shins from deadlifts I’m forever compelled to excel even if it means turning heaven into hell.
If you shake my hand you can feel my work through them. How much I fight, how much I defend and blend.. every new beginning and every bitter end. And when co-workers, relatives and friends have let me down, I look to my body for the Big Ben, Amen and Zen.
Time. And. Time. Again.
Even though I may hold the feeling of fear of one wrong move or sudden slip to injury I vow to never break my concrete self. The feeling of anxiety like those who welcome home performance pressures no matter how much their stressed heart swells. I’ll never give in until the reps and sets ring its glory bells!
I don’t see an audience more or less. I don’t see the other gym members half-assing their exercise movements. I barely hear my grunts or feel the fire and grime of my sweat. My pupils don’t even touch the gym floor mat.
My focus is eye ahead.