Day 1- ( chest and back)4-5 sets of 8-12 reps bench
4*8-12 Incline bench
4*8-12 DB flat press heavy
3*12-20 DB fly
3*12-20 chest in heavy
3 sets of push-ups
3 sets of pull ups
4*8-12 bent over rows
3*12-20 pull down mid grip
3*12 wide grip
3*12 triangle grip
3*8-12 arnie pull heavy
2-3 sets of one arm pull downs
10-15 min cardio
Day 5 (arms and back )-4*12-15 bent over barbell curls
4*12-15 seated DB curls
4*12-15 ez bar tricep pull downs
3*12-15 tricep extensions
3*12 tricep superset
4*20 barbell curls
3*12 ez bar curls
Gauntlet DB curls
4*20 pull downs
3*12 bent over rows
4*12 side pull downs
2*10 arnie pull
Streaks of toil blanket the road, while others slow to observe the hardship display occurring. The young boy, dressed in tempestuous stripes, and chronic pain. He surfs his mind for a silver lining but it seems everything has collapsed. —–
The wind threw itself past the eardrums of a father and son. The current stinging the boy with angst, and fear of letting go of his father’s pillar of strength. Equanimity soothed softly into his vision once his father turned back and gave his son a comforting grin. Languid clouds followed the adventurous spirits through the mountain slopes, along the rocky ground, and back upon the interstate. The engine fastidious in its appeal, growling and pulling every ounce of strength and energy it could possibly muster up. It was an old Harley. One that has been passed down for generations. The boy reminisces of the past, trenchant memories all disentangled at first but coagulating around his focus like a spotlight of the mind. They were memories of seeing his late grandpa passing the family treasure down to his son. Seeing his grandpa rev the engine, throwing his grown son onto the seat cushion while hopping off. They took a moment to stare at the majesty of the moment. The elegantly trimmed wheels, plain pristine pearly sides, reflective gauges. A memory of himself learning how to ride a bicycle, for the first time, hearing his father lionize his success, and show gracious comfort. His father pointing towards his baby, and uttering the phrase that sent a spark of galvanization through his frame; “You’re almost ready to take a spin on the old treasure, buddy.”
When reality hit him, he was still on the interstate, the white lines blinking at him, and the mountains furnishing his mind with an aura of escapism. The glaring eye in the sky, opens up to its blue room, with almost a jejune, puerile expression. The boy played around with the thought that it was voicing its secrets like a childhood friend. Along the side of the road, little hubs of crowded people, enjoying a homecooked meal, championing their choice of overeating with the enjoyment of social event. Soft, hearty reds, yellows, and gregarious whites lather around the community like a social paintshop. It cultivated within him, this paradox; that some mundane quality of life must eventually settle in a boy’s life. It concerned him. Like a gradually boiling flame simmering a stone, eventually the stone will conform to the temperature, and surround its once free, individual entity with the natural inevitability. Yet it was peculiar also to the boy, that like the stone, we must put up a facade to mask the inner voice within. That we must act robotic, because society desires us to do so.
For the time being though, he could continue living under the languid roof, his father built. At some points in his life, he feels his father is too generous. But his father, ostensibly has been through a lot, but the boy could never peel that onion rather his father always attempted to fulfill his son’s burning query with his own axiom; “a boiled egg, is better than one that is left out to dry on its own.” The boy never quite figured out what that meant. Mind you, he isn’t the world’s greatest detective, but he always attempted to be, costuming his childish arrogance with a youthful adventurous prowl. He was an impressionable young boy, always motivated by the stories he hears, reads and observes. He thought of life as a mystery, in which he must use his “impeccable deduction skills,” to put together the elaborate puzzle. But he is soon to find out that life is frankly, not “elementary.” Rather life is spontaneous, elaborate yes, but can be gumptious in its evil and gratitude. It can be manipulative, justifiable, sarcastic, and friendly. It’s a melting pot of voice that lathers its eyes upon each individual like a kindled light. We must observe the light, and observe the ambiguous voice to understand even the most fundamental layers of life.
His head lays back on the unforgiving concrete. Sirens glare in the young boys ears, almost gloating, mocking his situation like a sadistic clown. The air now seems stained with facetious, sordid appeal, and the life he once knew, the comfortability, the pleasure in talking to the man who would give him his all, seems all lost. The father’s eyes, sinking within his face, now draw for his son’s presence, bubbling with dread, and monstrous solitude. “He’s slipping.” One of the men in uniform diagnosed, as many others in uniform crowded the frantic scene like crows, flocking from their sirens.
Trails of tears roll down the boy’s cheek, while he observes the only man in his life stroll off into the obnoxious vehicles that dress the air with alarming sirens. It seems no one paid attention to the boy, like everyone besides his father had done in his life. He was accustomed to alienation, but this kind of event felt remarkably obscure. This time he accounted, as he saw the vehicles door close on his father, his head resting on sinking reserves of life, he could not go to his father for support. This time he would have to innovate his own advice, scramble sometime of intuition up from dust, lifting his own head up, and ruffling his own hair, he begins to walk the other way. Down the white strips that line the never ending road that slopes the rising mountain, and that patterns its way back down to where his father is slowly drifting from him.
The morning sun rose like a humpbacked cat rising through the thick foliage of torn trees and sloped streets. A man arose as well, as he always had and as he always will. His life has been mundane, monotonous, episodic. The mattress on the floor seems to be the only support in his dormant life. Walls painted with sorrow and sordid quality dresses the atmosphere and toils with the man’s voice. Walls that have an uneven surface; a mirror to the man’s routine. There is little to no furnishing in this small apartment, and about the only noticeable piece is so because of its rotten smell, that of the chair in the corner of the room. The man ruffled his shaggy head of hair and scratched his ribcage, as he arose from the side of the mattress. Air slithered from the overhanging air vent above him and galvanized his senses. But he came back down to Earth with the scorching burn of his abdomen. He looked at the doctor’s business card that is pinned to the wall facing him, and scoffs. It’s been a constant nuisance but there’s been no financial levity in his life to make such an investment. Life trickles down a drowning stream and collapses into a monumental hole that bellows. Demons juristic the man’s subconscious, amd any notion that follows. He stares out the only window in his apartment, that constantly fogs and whistles in the night. Through the window he can see the main road that trails into the downtown plaza, where he can find gullible, vacant minded individuals to pick pocket. In the plaza, theres a center water sprout that superimposes any other financial investment that the small community has put their money towards. He can hear small children playing in the community playground right across from the plaza, and hears the morning song of the birds trickling through. The man dressed himself with his overcoat in his rather empty closet, and some jeans that have seen the worst of times. He walks out the creaky door and down the stairs and out through the front, where he can feel the stinging breeze of the start of Winter and the plastered dew on the knee high grass that dress the yards of the apartment. The plaza to his left, along with the playground, and foreward is the meaningless little road that few drive on. Above his heads the massive trees that are still upright although always seem to be on the verge of tipping over. Osstensibly, there was no auspicious value in notifying a soul, but he was always tempted to do so because of the ominous overganging tree right above his apartment window.
…That’s the silence, that’s the pondering, that’s the hesitation…there it goes again, you desire the words. The story, the plot, it doesn’t come. You write the first chapter, you feel brilliant, as brilliant as you can be. This the best work. Charles Dickens, Hemingway, and Albert Camus all would be jealous of my prose. But the thing is, they wouldn’t be. You wait a day, then a few days, then all of a sudden you’ve spent the last month working on a mere 5,000 words. You jumble some pretext of why you can’t continue on but really the only one satisfied by your excuses our yourself. Where’s the sophistication? I must’ve left my tea at home. So the boiling entity that is creativity is befuddled by this thing called reality. The grounded culture that negatively pulls down your thoughts, covering the mass ideas with a curtain of blank stares, and obsolete personality. The curtain that drowns rich blood in the cold winter of the mind and the hot summer swelters behind. It’s the cold mess of mishaps that shred to pieces and the mostly wanted calls of hope that get lost in the mess. Instead of being the captain of your own ship, the captain of your own soul, your humbled by all this, overwhelmed by all the; but that wouldn’t make sense, and what ifs, and the they wouldn’t like that.
I’m realizing that a good story does not go about being written. Rather it has already been wrote. You must unravel the characters, and stir up the thick clay to find the story that they find themselves drenched in. There is no repercussion for letting the story be found in your mind. It would be a tragedy for it not to be found. With that in mind I’ll let my ideas settle, let the characters speak for themselves, and tell me their stories. For there might be carping but that will be no real matter because this story is the one that should’ve been told from the start. It seems like a conundrum at points, the fact that you can’t continue, but it is whispering to you, it breeds deep within your walls. The story is inside you. Just let it breathe.
P.S. This sort of was a self motivating speech to myself, but I am happy that you guys are here with me. Hope this helped 🙂