mirage

Pressurized steam hisses through my teeth as I press. My elbows lock out and somewhere, beyond the immediateness of the weight hovering above my chest, the number "7" echoes between my ears. The muscles in my throat quiver as if to speak, yet the number itself goes unspoken. The cold bar drifts backwards and settles in its rack. I sit up on the inclined bench, a bench I haven't used in over three months, only to find the slant awkward and uncomfortable. Slouch forward, lean back, scoot up, scoot down, nothing is conducive to a relaxed posture. I try the reverse, feet planted flat, knees at right angles, sweaty hands resting upon thighs, hips tilted forward, spine straight, shoulders rolled back, chin up.

Thursday. I'm at the gym on a Thursday. That's a bit different. Normally, I'm here Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but thanks to MLK day my schedule is off. Then again, this isn't the only oddity today. I should be doing clean & jerks, or dead lifts, or Arnold presses; inclined bench presses are nowhere on today's menu, nor this week's menu, nor this month's menu. Three sets of seven reps is not a standard protocol for me, either. My standard rep schemes, depending upon the type of routine I'm doing, include 1, 3, 5, 6, 8, 10, 12, 15, and 20. If fact, I cannot recollect ever designing a routine utilizing seven reps. Three sets of seven reps is an odd concept using odd numbers… odd prime numbers, which makes everything feel cerebrally uneven.

Normally, I would be slumped in a corner right now recharging my taxed body for the next set. Instead, I'm forced into this rigid meditative posture. Ergonomically correct, yes; conserving energy, no. Resting my drained body the way I prefer may not be an option on this bench, but refocusing and recharging my mind is still viable.

My eyes stare at point of emptiness inches past the tip of my nose. The mirrored wall and welded squat racks dance blurrily with my seated reflection; their shapes and colors mean nothing. Everywhere, metal plates clank with piercing sharpness against each other, against metal bars, against steely racks, against the padded floor. But these sounds are muffled to a mind detached from its sense organs. Even the stale stank of my week-old gym clothes is forgotten. My nose, itself, still perceives the dried sweat, but the sensation is lost somewhere along the short neural pathway that connects nose to mind. My mind is blank. Like oil stains on the meniscus of a hovering bubble, all perceptions lie on the perimeter of my consciousness while the mind itself is hollow and unstained. Though my posture is rigid, my breathing is relaxed. Though my lids are heavy, they are open.

The distant mirrored wall shimmers gently, attracting the attention of primal region buried deep within my subconscious. My reflection ripples wave-like. I can pinpoint the exact epicenter of these concentric currents: my forehead, between my eyes, yet above my brow, and behind my skull. A psychokinetic bolt shoots through my twinned image who resides in a gleaming world of polished liquid mercury. His universe ripples in slow motion. We stare at each other, mystified.

Is this real?

Seeking comprehension, cognitive awareness lethargically swims through the vacuum of my mind. Before my consciousness can conceive --much less perceive-- this singular irregularity, the phenomenon dissolves, melting away like a frozen dream that leave naught but the curious aftertaste of half-understood hallucinations. I try to piece together the jagged fragments of delirium, but my rational mind does not have the faculty to understand.
...and so it was written, shenry at 1/23/2004 02:32:00 PM.
...and so it was appended with .