BOOOSH
The bumper plate hits the floor with tremendous force. Eyes turn and necks become crooked.
Some people get pissed off at the sudden metallic volume, crashing into their ears with a fury reminiscent of a firebrand preacher. Others embrace the ferocity, using it to drive them on and increase their strength.
Chalk begins to scatter, like confetti at a wedding. I dust my hands in anticipation of heaving steel above my head. Men used to wield swords, casting their dominance through the medium of violence.
I wield the barbell.
Meditation comes in many forms. Some obvious and some more subtle and hard to find.
The mind starts to scatter, unfulfilled by the still and essence of steel. This results in pain and frustration. The thumbs become obscured by gnarled fingers and the arms firm up, strong but flexible. My eyes look towards the sky, praying to the altar of hard steel.
I weld my spine into my hips and shoulders. My chest stands proud like a fighting cock, weary after months of battles in farmyards and musky cellars.
I hold my breath.
I pull the bar. The bar begins to move slowly like a ship on its maiden voyage from a lonely port. Momentum kicks in. My hips extend, thrusting outwards with vigour. The shoulders begin to shrug, resembling a bemused child being chastisised.
My hands begin to hover round the bar. My knees folding slightly yet remaining rooted to the spot.
My shoulder frame burns as it collides with steel. The pain searing through my battered carcass.
I stand tall, weight in hands.
BOOOSH.
The steel owns my mind
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