The Contrast

The Contrast
Lift Big, Sing Big, Look Great Doing It.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

The Hour of Ascension.

The following could be described (I guess) as a poem. I don't really know what else to call it, nor am I going to research the parameters of writing to give it a title. Millions of people buy a shitty guitar, sing a couple of cover songs and call themselves musicians, why can't I web together sentences and call myself a writer? Call it ramblings, call it bull shit. I dunno and I don't really care. Frankly, that's half of what following is about. I'll settle for the pretentious claim of poetry and equal pretentious title of poet. Why not?

I've been writing things such as the following for years, and it's something I don't normally share, but I feel that I've been fairly open to the people that are committed readers, and this site is a personal sounding, fuck it. Enjoy.

The Hour of Ascension

Can you commit? A year, a month, a day? How about an hour? 60 minutes of your precious time. Is that kind of commitment within you?

Can you beat the alarm, forgo the snooze, test will when wrapped in the comfort of grandmothers quilt? Forcing lids to remain open, absorbing the brightness of your phone while brainwashing yourself with words "Successful people do what they have to do whether they feel like it or not." Forcing yourself to believe in your divinity, your purpose and your selection for greatness. Understanding that goals and dreams were not built upon the foundations of sheets and pillows that comfort, but that of rock and granite that cut and scar. Will you leave that loved one who shares your intimacy whom celebrates in your triumphs but pleads for your presence when it comes at the cost of your early departure?

Checking your weight, analyzing, discerning fact from fiction, truth and science from the grit and disappointment associated with those digital numbers displayed beneath your feet. Self observation, critiquing that Physique, measuring yourself against yourself, pushing thoughts of your competitors out of your mind. Will you make that plan, take your action, stick to your guns and follow through?

That drive. Every morning, that drive. Cold, warm, sleet, snow, rain or shine. That familiar engine turn, those aggressive cylinders echoing in your hallowed head. Music feels so wrong at this hour. 5, 10, 15 minutes feels like eternity when in the silence of your wearied thoughts. Will you bend and break when tested at your heaviest?

The barbell feels heavy today. It felt heavy yesterday. The dumbbell wont fit into your hand correctly. Your feet are not lined up, your hips are tight, back keeps touching the bench, form and function, the rocks where you take stand become as brittle as your spirit. Which will break first? Hands chapped, skin broken, feet blistered. Muscle and ligament worn, the leather of your hide cracking under the weight and burden of your desires. Will you celebrate in the discomfort of your success?

Mocked, belittled, and dismissed by the loud unapologetic few, silently supported by the many. The rewards have little earthly value. The pocket book draining journey you feel inclined to continue will reap riches equal it's weight in the blood and marrow you milk from your body. Will you ascend as the pauper king you crave to be?

Just when you're convinced that the torturous norms and the varied results are your guide, your reasons for your ascend. You're better. You're bigger. Light Weight. Iron fisted. You are the God you seek in heaven, the idea of inner beauty, peace, and understanding. You are Ghandi. Life has no meaning because you die and are reborn everyday. The ritual practice of destroying and rebuilding your body clears your mind of the foolishness of pride, touching your inner animal, feeding your desire to feel that blood shoot through your veins, that air throttle your lungs, those grunts grind against your chords. You cry like the child you always were, your desperate yell to lift that damned barbell unites your present, past, and future as one. You tolerate and celebrate inconvenience to enter into the gates of your own heaven, your cathedral, your arena. Your home. Damn the results. You're here to be here. Fuck what may. This hour belongs to you and the God you are.

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