The Strongman

The Strongman. Every culture has its’ ritual The wise men from every corner of the world know this. They conduct rituals to wash away and simplify impurity Whether it being mediation under a water fall, Fasting for forty days, or escaping to some holy mountain. But now, we lost our connection to the world, so we drown ourselves In information, in media, in technology. Although still, Everyone has their ritual to tear away the world and recreate themselves. Some have the guitar, some have the brush, and I have the iron. In the iron I can pour away every lie that was ever told to me, In the iron I can pour away the anger, the regret, the resentment. That we all feel everyday but try so hard to drown out our voices In the iron there is no girlfriends, no parents, no debt, and no failure. There is simply an object; there is simply my ability to pick it up, How far I can pick it up, how much I can pick it, how heavy it is. There is no competition as sweet, as gratifying as the might to Conquer the weakness in ourselves. I am not here to look better, my least desire to become some sort of Swooning pretty boy, the best I can hope for is to resemble a beaten down Boxer with worn-out gloves, battered from years of hardscrabble fights, to look like an Old weathered longshoreman, whose body shows the scars of rowing and loading their whole life long. To resemble those men whose frame has no classic aesthetic beauty, but raw and Primal strength of will. Those men who fought a thousand battles only to conquer Themselves in the end. To walk without equal, to be sure of every step, Of every muscle, every movement. That is what I wish for. So everyday, I haul my broken, beaten, scarred body back to the mountain, I perform the ritual, to break away the world, to break apart myself. In hopes that at the end of my trials I may be granted gratification in myself. Because every wise man of this world knows, strength does not come from power, all strength is control.