The past few months, I look back over the shoulder. Been numb. Lost a sense of day and night. Back to my rat hole gym. The stink is nostalgic. The rusted iron plates. The welded dumbells. My things abandoned in a dark corner. So many fancy gyms, people migrate! They go away! UPGRADE! Yes, downgrades always need upgrades.
Here, the rust is familiar, déjà vu.
Been sitting on my chair for long. Day in and day out. Tearing away. Frail. Weak. No gushing blood. The veins no longer pump. Like what? Robot. Planning. Executing. Making money. I hate money. Even the idea of it. People define you with it. It changes people. It doesn’t change me. It doesn’t define me. The same old things are true. Friendships. Sacrifice. Honour. Dignity. Submitting to Allah only, nobody else. Nobody.
It is all here in the rusty iron weights. The fancy gyms have plastic weights, be wary! 100 KGS of iron will be that 100 KGS, the rust will only add a few ounces, quite a calculation. The plastic chips away slowly. It’s unreal.
Coming back here feels like a homecoming warrior. Proud of what he has believed in, what he has followed, what he has practiced, and what he has learned.