Heavy weights where arms feel like Jell-O. Lime Jell-O. Wiggly and bright green, like a 1960s space race. Powdered Tang and dehydrated ice cream sold for an exorbitant amount of money at the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, FL – All to pretend that we are just like the astronauts too. Unsung heroes of beyond the skies. Knowledge is not enough, but your body must be put through a physical ringer. I could not handle the nausea, the sick, the equations. I shouldn’t even eat the ice cream.

Have we wasted precious metals on weight lifting? Shouldn’t those be melted down to become something else? Are they recyclable? Heavy, sweating, gym stink, wet socks. Blue mats from karate class, the basement stench of punching bags, rubber and foam. Swinging chains from hooks on low ceilings. Cold metal slipping from my hyperhidrosis hands. They sweat in protest now. Middle fingers to humidity forever. This is my story, I’m writing it, yet beholden to truth even if it does not help me. Even if it does not put forth some preferred narrative. Black weighted ends and that are not friendly. Dumbbells vs. Dumb Belles. The clang as they are removed from their holsters and the forceful clang and bang as they observe gravity making their way down, too heavy for their carriers. Expelling energy, grunting, losing control. To increase muscle tone, to suffer through soreness, to become someone and carve out the marble we were meant to be like we’re our own Michelangelos, hand near chin. Biceps call out in protest. These hamster wheel habits are not what we signed up for. And what is the point of it all anyway? To gain strength? To lose flab? To increase the production of endorphins? We pick and choose the truths that make sense to us. My ankles ache from over-exertion. I must treat them with kindness and respect. Our bodies are not here for long. Meteor dust in space, knowing all I can to survive on this, my home planet, in this solar system. “A Spoonful Weighs A Ton”. Catastrophic willingness to be alive. Hurricane incoming and spinning. It looks like a silent movie from orbit.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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