The song I banged these little black keys to. Fuck the doubters, and fight to the death.
I'm back. I'm sorry. I have missed drinking coffee with you in the dark orchestra. I have missed chatting with you, venting to you, and entering unforgiving worlds of imaginations and familiar experiences of hard training followed with tears of pain with you. Tears of pain from the hell we live in. Paths that lead to demonds and anglels. Yes, I am back. Yes, we are still alive and well. Together holding hands in the blazing fires of weightlifting, side by side, shaky hands and pissed off haters, we stand. A society that shunned us from the norm, who call us freaks, who don't understand. The sport that will take your soul and swallow you whole. A sport that will leave you with nothing unless you achieve something. Unless you man or women the fuck up and attack the devil in a red dress everyday. Never take her hand, leave her beauty for "him". A move across the Country chasing a dream is why these moving boxes smile at me. The plates chatter with talk of never again. The title will never be yours my kitchen tables explained to me, as I chewed on its wooden side showing it my strength and the power of my bite. Everyone I have beat in this sport knows my bite, so now it's the kitchen table's turn. Why chase something you can't see? My world is not in America, it's with you in this empty hallway that echoes sounds of an orchestra playing our sad song, a song that we are familiar with. "Why sad?," asks the new member to this blog. I will tell you why, no.... we will tell you why. Listen closely my soft handed friend, because there are more bad days than good days in this sport. 99 bad days and one good day. 99 days of doubt dragging behind one maybe "I can" day. Just one "yes" day. Maybe I will keep opening my garage door, turning up my music, and training by my mother fucken self. Maybe one day I will slam this bar and shatter everyone who ever doubted me. Maybe I will climb to the top of the world and raise my hand high as I disperse into a chalky cloud that hangs over all who tried to tell me to roll my windows up when the AC was on.
She followed me here, Miss Brown Eyes that is. She has been waiting for me as I drove my car across Country, chugging red bulls with my hand tight around the wheel, imagining thoughts of me representing this great Country again. On stage, with TV cameras following me around again like last year at the games. Oh, did I go crazy, yes I did, and people hated me for it. Yes. Complete. Thank you. Thank you for putting this black coat on me, this black shirt on me, and these black pants on me. Thank you for putting this guitar in my hands and letting me sing to the world through this blog. She tasted slightly different from the heat and humidity, but her kiss are the same. Her touch is the same, and the feeling of hope and happiness throughout all my trials and errors in this life is the same. We are back. The Attitude Nation is back, well....we never left, Just busy is all. But now all settled in, now finally time to write. Miss Brown Eyes is back, the team is back. We together will achieve greatness in this lifetime, whether it's through weightlifting or family. Whether it's bettering ourselves as people, or getting better grades in school. We are one, we are the best, we are a family which the flames cannot touch.
The new radio show is exciting. But there is something missing. It's not the same as writing. I feel we connect much better through this black key board. I feel more alive when writing to you. I feel we have a certain understanding, more so than when I talk through the mic. The mic cages my true emotions from being nervous and not letting my fingers do the talking. My soul types and the coffee directs. Talking is just the surface. Yes it's fun, yes it's great to chat and hear your voice, but the connection is just not there. Writing is a powerful feeling that cannot be explained. I am going to start writing everyday, not every other day, but everyday. I will never leave for that long again. I will never leave the Nation alone while you stand over the bar with your war paint splattered on your face. Your chalky white hands look as if you are a mime, the only difference is the blood from your wounds has crept through the dry cracks of your hand, and are now dripping one by one onto the platform. You smile, but you really aren't smiling. We never really smile. We are great actors, for pain and discomfort is always casted upon us. I must fight with you. I must die by your side in this fucken hell we live in. The strength of many, that's how I will win Americans. That's how I will break these American records. The strength of the lone garage weightlifter. Salute to you, the soldier who fights with no one around to push him. The soldier who trains hard, even though little gremlins tell myths about over training. Salute to us, who turn our back to rest.