Day workout

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

Bicep-tricep

10-15 min cardio

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Sample workout

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*12pulldown midgrip

3*12 bent over rows

4*12 side pull downs

2*10 arnie pull

The ride of a lifetime

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. 

A new story

A piece of “A Chronicle of Subordination” 

A part of chapter 1 “Till Death Do Us Part”:

His badge, a dreaded sight of the inevitable. The chains now locked, and his head down, he was ushered into a police car, rather aggressively. His arms could barely function. They were weighted down by utter confusion. The cushioned seat became firm, and unforgiving as he had to now plead guilty to a crime he was questioning his own innocence of. The policeman was a loner. He alone, looked at his reflection in the rear view mirror, and he alone, fixed the mirror now on the loner in the back seat. Akakios had a heart that now beaten at an alarming rate. His palms began to perspire, and his eyes fell under a heavy spell. Any comfort was a collapsing fear, because a seemingly strong foundation was now a questionable structure. It was a cognitive response to doubt and a frantic subconscious at work. The pages seemed to fill with words expressed by a different man. Numbed was the man before. He was collapsed somewhere deep within, beyond rescue. 

    The car pulled into a vacant lot. The graveled lot scratching the underbelly of each tire and crumbling underneath the weight. The car screeched to a halt and the cop abruptly got out of his seat. An angry eye was fixated on Akakios. The door was pulled open and the surrendering man’s heart dropped. The cop, filled to the brim with rage, tore at the man’s arm. Akakios did not fight back. He took a beating. The liquid of life, spread on the cushion that felt so firm before, on the rearview mirror, on Akakios’ face. It was a grim scene. A scene that flashed by as fast as it started. The cop resumed his position in the front seat, and revved the engine. 
    “That was my son back there.”
    The cop adjusted the mirror.
    “Did you hear me? That was my life!”
    He put the car in gear, and drifted onto the main road. 
    “I pray to God, you rot in prison. I pray that you don’t even see the light of day. I pray that you slowly diminish into the man you really are. I hope, that you burn. You burn down there. I hope you dwell with the caregivers of Satan. I hope he enslaves you and you have to drink from your own drink.”

    

    Akakios had no response. What was he to say? He was crushed. There was no sympathy either. I suppose that made him a criminal, a terrible human being. He was infatuated with nothing. He was a man that flowed with whatever life brought to him in that moment. Did that make him inhumane? The car drifted into a parking lot. The lot was mostly full with press and other media outlets. The night was now threatening. The cop pounded on the dash.
    “I hope you die. You’re coming out with me and then you’re going in there.”

Create a New Tab

A subconscious consensus that I’ve  come to, is that we want more. We meditate on progression. We concentrate on movement.

 

So the mountains move yet we stay still. So the clouds move and we stay observing the open sky. So the cruise leaves and we settle on the waters. Imbecility shudders the optimistic man. Self loathing becomes a mandated skill, you rely on to make conversation, to live, to breathe. Vicious minds violate the prerequisite mind. We tumble and fall. We shout and cry. We loft the illusions. In the mind of a believer of truth, weariness coincides. Abruptly we cast out our wishes but we see no charm. Sometimes life requires a new tab. Sometimes that search engine is compiling too many search results.

 

Some ramblings, that is all.

(Your name here) is free

It seems the nectar of life is deceiving. An American Dream. An innate quality gesticulating within the borders, we build. It is vulnerable as we make it. How, catastrophic it would be to see an individual lose the passion that would have driven them to destiny. For whatever it might be, I believe it is beneficial to keep that passion. Even if the pieces are jumbled inside your head, at least you have pieces. At least eventually you can make a picture. This picture is a valuable quality that disseminates through your veins. Life is a motion picture and you’re the director. Whatever you wish can come true, if you declare it be. Your dreams encompassing your goals and aspirations, you become a lively being. See it and you will become it. Be careful with this. Constantly adjust your frame. If you leave it be, these great things will never take place. Don’t conclude everyone’s dream is your dream. A father shouldn’t push a dream on to his son. A teacher shouldn’t tell a student, they can’t be something. A coach shouldn’t say you’re too slow. You know what though? That is the reality of our culture and human nature. These judgements are hidden messages. They are blessings in disguise. It is a golden amber flashing under an artificial surface. Take it as it is. Reevaluate and push forward.

Without motion, there is no movement. It sounds like an obvious statement yet is deceiving. Life chronicles the hidden mysteries, the longing virtues in the turbulent streams. The streams no one wishes to pursue. They are hidden within them. Subside your closed mind, humble your heart, laugh with creativity, and stride in a progressive beauty that opens its strides in elegance. As the flowers bloom, so does your mind and so does the horizon, and so does the daunting fence that you constructed long ago. You can fall into the graceful hands of freedom and bleed service and hope. You are a new adventurer. A new inquisitive, purposeful detective in the case of life. Just don’t give up the case. 

Victory is from the one above. The clouds emerge victorious under the casting reflection set upon the ground. A guide to the end. A daunting task at first. The Diety. The glorious faith it takes to take on life. He will not forsake. He will not take away without a purpose. He will shine a light on those invisible corners and those unreached gifts. Breathe in life. Seek love where it began.

 

That’s all I have to say about that.