Beads of sweat trace the deep lines of his cheek bones, falling softly into a pool of their kin below.
His brow is furrowed in concentration, his eyes assertive and cold.
Under the dim fluorescent lights, surrounded by silence and steel, the chaos of the world around him slows to the steady rhythmic pace of his breath.
In, Out
In, Out
Part of him questions his sanity. He is in pain, but he won’t stop.
He has learnt that pain is his ally, not foe. With pain comes progress. He welcomes pain with open arms.
He steadies his breath, he isn’t done yet.
His task is to keep going despite every fibre in his being begging him to stop. He will finish this task, no matter what it costs him.
His callused hands grip the cold steel at his feet and like a conductor bringing his orchestra to crescendo, commands the bar to move to his whim.
He is an artist.
His body moves between conscious and unconscious, limbs reacting on auto pilot yet with the precision of surgeon.
He has done this before.
He will do it again.
He finishes, hands on his quivering thighs as he breathes deep, such a simple pleasure now his to freely enjoy.
He does not sit, nor lay down.
He still has work to do.
He is the athlete.
