The white glaze that once circled her brown eyes now lays in a bath of blood, as a shot of warmth meets the cold outside air. Steam moves like fog around the icy mountains that stagger her on point journey where land meets water. Throughout her tunnel vision......each step will soon push her closer to feeling alive, once the blood from her eyes falls fast upon her moving feet. As the dragon flying above her breathes fire amongst the now charcoal black trees..... she adds another taste of blood for the rush of bravery and balance. Blood so heavy her eyelids droop, low like the bank she walks to, heavy and deep like her past. Evil pulled them down to see what lies within the eyes that look out, to figure out how someone so fragile can become so strong. The black dots that never seem to blink have now been infected with the blood she has drawn so heavy. A shot of reality to help with reality. A shot of warm meeting cold to create some sort of fucken balance that this life has given her. Her hands ice cold as the rocks of gravel under her feet roll with crunch as the path she takes leads her to the destination of her choosing. With every step a drop of blood falls, warming her with a coat of white as her skin turns ghost from the loss of blood. The evening turns dark like her soul, as the ice around her melts from her warmth. She gives off a certain vibe that makes the knees from others crumble and grow weak. Strong with a taste of bold, some can't seem to handle her power, some can't seem to swallow her misery, her pain.... her faults. Some can't seem to handle what truth she holds. The smell of sharp, the after taste of regret. She is you.... the direction of love, real and never forgotten, for some stay hidden away from the bank she walks toward.
A cold night chills the plants and trees that bend like ballet dancers, falling and swinging like a play that asks for her approval. For claps are unseen, for the blood has drawn shade over the already black holes that sink into her head. A dark roast of fire burns her stomach with every step, closer and closer she walks.... faster and faster her heart pumps, moving her feet at a steady pace over the frozen hills and green landscape she calls necessary. Fight within released from the hell outside makes the skin turn from the reader to her, as she screams to the moon while digging her long nails into her palms.... a grip so tight only blood could be drawn. For blood is what makes any shot swirl and scream, come alive and dream, to walk the night with a dream in mind, to get closer to this reality becomes a responsibility that weighs heavy in her hand. As her mind turns, the mixture of both energy meeting energy rattles a heavy blend of storm and rain, wet as the melting rocks that slowly turn into her brown eyed pain. Becoming a part of myself, you the reader whoever mixes two toxins of the some sort will figure, a storm of some sort will violently rain down upon the ones who fucked us. Giving all hell to capture, for freedom within is without blood from within. She bleeds the shot of her life which makes mine spike with fierce revenge, raining hell on those who struck me down, for cuts on my back keep me from drowning in hell. My own scars are what keeps me curing the ones of others. I will cut my skin deep with the nails I have grown, so others can't. She adds an extra shot, so they can't.
She met her edge, as the water met her lips. Red like her eyes.... red like the sea she looks over. Home bound, and ready to live under a liquid layer where fear cannot reach. Her eyes now closed, as her toes met the fall, while her heels stayed steady on the bank of ice and rock. Still cold, still night, for she felt warmth as the shot of confidence met her that night.....she then took a deep breath.....
"Your name is strong, you must kill it before they kill you". - unknown
What a morning it is. Crisp cold monster after a tall hot coffee. One dripping with sweat warming the soul with ease and serenity.....while the other burns the throat from its ice cold daggers when chugged at a fast pace. ah yes......motivation rings throughout my ears, as the the sound of white buzzers fill the gym and the cracking of an almost broken bar spins closer to meeting the graveyard of steel and dust. Miss brown eyes dances on my right shoulder whispering songs of sex and passion......while the monster on the left tells cold stories of my past, guiding my anger out with a middle finger and a chair thrown to its death. Fuck you chair, fuck you world. I wear a gold grill placed on my teeth to smile at the ones who once kicked dirt upon my dreams....who laughed at my potential.....and who doubted my every move. A smile of gold that tells a story of a grid that lead me here....with you. A half cracked smile that once lived homeless with broke. I smile of clean to say no more to the Crystal smoke that once filled my lungs with a high that makes sense why so many would turn in everything for another taste. The problem with meth is that it's just that good.....I'm not going to lie. But....the best thing about the gym life society is that it's even that much better. Gym life for life as we drink coffee side by side. Hand in hand, filling our stomach with swords and weapons, ammo and shields, attacking the society that we once fell capture to. Society....you will now feel the wrath of my bar, as an earthquake will take you all down to the cracks of hell and into the dark where we the Orchestra call home.
Another coffee.....this time mixed with monster for todays openers. A hit and quit type day. Gearing for a meet this saturday. Gearing up for the small glimpse of light before being dragged back down. LETS BREATHE! This my friend is what a meet is....the surface of the water where our heads meet the sun! Reach and grab, hold steady and then stab! Dig your knife deep into the belly of the beast for a feast with the ones who fight in the gym you call home. Once alone.....now you are a part of a mafia that stretches from this blog to the ones breaking blood vessels to watch you stand. Yell, "Mother fuckers!" We alone are weak, for numbers make us strong. As each bars slams, the offices across the street gather canned food, as all the prisoners to money and retirement 4 1 k's panic. Every bar that is broke the trainers at planet fitness gather their weak-minded sheep under ground for fear of.......us. For fear of higher standards, and morals that fall from the ski the size of beach balls, crashing upon car windows and shattering "fuel economy cars". I work hard to put gas in a car. I don't need or care if a car gets great gas milage. I drive fast n furious, loud and bold, in a car that eats gas like I eat sheep.
This morning I am writing in the front office next to others, in a room of sun and smiles....maybe this is why the skeletons are in such a good mood, positive, and outgoing. My dark office with a flicker of light can make our skeletons draw dark and painful......which I do truly love. I love the dark. I love pain.....why? Maybe why is not the right question. Maybe why not is the right thought process. Why is it frowned upon to feel safe in the dark? To feel pain from the past? Embracing our weakness? Atmosphere is everything. Salute.
Naked I stand.......tiger blood I drink. White sheep skinned fur hangs from the back of my neck, falling like a cape and dragging against the muddy ground behind me. I stand tall and sharp, my head turned to the side like my sword....jagged and on point, down and in, ready and steady. Blood runs down my face as I close my black eyes and drink, drink what has given me great success....and even more failure. My double edge sword cuts my hand while I spin my blade around and around, taking out the skin from my palms like a grapefruit. A rhythm warrior, only left with a steady rhythm of nightmares. Nightmares that keep this fearless man in fear, while dreams stream out, long and cold under a bridge where water runs under, while others walk over. Tiger blood cuts tallies from the point of his blade into the pierce of his skin, one by one men have taken their last breath, as a cut from their skin now lays at rest on his. This blood called tiger makes men do extreme acts of good or bad.......how you use this curse is up to you, the reader. This blog is about the man who gave you and I this curse. A blog about a man who came about tiger blood and what he did with it. This blog is about you and me.
His home is made up of other's abandoned problems, left for dead skeletons, and forgotten relationships. He sleeps on rocks that have been beaten by the tide, as the sand from the wash of others builds walls high and strong under his bridge of protection and capture. The stream runs red with blood, as the bridge above marches with new hopes and dreams, as the warrior underneath battles demons left behind from the white sheep above. Drinking the blood from dead skeletons gave him the strength beyond anything anyone has seen. The strength to swing his sword violently through the guts of the ones above. The naked warrior promised with every drink from the red stream, that he would take vengeance on those weak minded souls who left their own skeletons to die and rot, turn sour and be forgotten......he would take his sword and bounty those very people who gave him the curse he carried inside of him......the curse of extreme emotion. Heads fell to the ground with each swing of his sword, rolling heads were then thrown to the side for bears and birds. His rusted sword had to cut at times rather than slice, for the past of the ones he was killing made his swing heavy and his sword dull from left in the rain emotions. Tiger blood pumped through this warrior's body so hard that he at times would scream at the headless bodies before ripping their hearts out and drinking the dripping blood that was left, trying to move like traffic in New York. He drank blood and became strong, he drank the blood from those who didn't know how to use the blood they had. He opened his mouth and began then to eat their bones. One by one he slaughtered every single person who walked over the bridge above his home, drinking blood to gain endurance, and eating their bones to build strength. His face was covered in blood splatter and spaghetti looking guts. His knee would meet the ground as his hand would enter their chest, ripping out everything that once laid like a puzzle.....complicated but perfect.....now complex and scattered. Hundreds dead, that murdered a hundred themselves.....he was finally feeling good about himself. He felt he was doing right.....was he? I have no idea....I'm just telling the story of the man who once took bounty on those who drew blood to a stream that he drank out of. Blood from skeletons he adopted and took in....literally. Skeletons who gave him strength and nightmares. I am telling you a story of the man who killed hundreds......and saved hundreds.
5,000 years ago, this warrior under the bridge of red, made love to a woman a few years later.......a woman that was immediately infected by this curse. She soon became the first female hunter all the tribes had ever seen. She killed more animals than all the male hunters combined. She somehow felt she had the strength of a million people.......what she didn't know.......is she had the strength of a million skeletons.
You the reader......let me introduce our long lost relatives.
His head hanged low, as the folds of his Asian eye lids drew shade over his regret. Two eyes that have seen hell, as abandonment and pain pump through his veins as he sits on the white crinkled paper in a world of white and a smell of death. A time and place where everything stops, and the world focuses in on a single man. A man that is a master of capture, a slave owner of skeletons, and a warden of the biggest death row prison known to mankind. A man that turns the other way, for the pain burns when confronted. A man that has experienced heaven......only to live in hell. Skin beaten, hands clammy. A worried look comes over a man that never looks worried. For worried is an emotion never shown nor confronted. Sad is something too close, for looking back hurts the most. Walk fast, at times run, Bonny and Clyde himself and his gun. Never get caught is a philosophy that has caught up. Now silence takes over, reality knocks. His head of knowledge and mastery turns to the side as his eyes continue to lay low, almost as if he is being protected.......safe from what lies in front of him. Bonny has been caught, and now fear meets Clyde. My father of strong, must now meet his weakness......his own skeletons.
A small tint of orange met his black boots as the doctor's office drew dark. The only light coming from the bottom of the closet door that flickered up his legs.....leaving his face barely lit from the reflection of the orange lake below his feet. He felt better in the dark.....he always has. Years of excuses, has finally run out, as the closet door started to shake. The banging sound of bone to wood made his hands bury his face for comfort, as the reality started to enter through the closet cracks. The skeletons wanted their freedom, the skeletons needed him to become free. Mad at himself......mad at the world. His father passing makes his gut turn. Pain that makes him want to throw up, and at times......escape. An older daughter that leaves him breathless at night, turns his pillow into a clenched blanket of might. Someone to talk to he should, but his skin is stubborn, while his skeletons suffer. He will never be free, unless he enters the Orchestra.
His beat up body and unhealthy lifestyle made it hard to get off the bed. The white doctor's sheet crinkled as his left hand pushed against his left knee to get up. He stood outside of the door now quiet. His breathing became fast, as his heart raced like his life. He reached out his hand and turned the knob. The door opened with ease, almost as if someone pushed from the inside. His whole body was covered in a glow of orange. The warmth of the light made his breathing calm, and his eyes open wider. His skin looked brighter as his body became lighter. Already a sense of relief...for just entering his past was a tough step. A skeleton dressed in red with gold cuff links asked for his ticket. The skeleton's red locomotive looking hat hung off to the side, shading one side of his face. His eyes were hollow for my father's eyes were his. Sight connected with sight, heart beat to heart beat, emotion to emotion they were more connected than the skeleton's bones to joints. One in the same......my father never understood this.....for my father is his worst skeleton. The ticket ripped as the bony usher drew his arm out to the side with a small smile and a tilt of the skull, guiding and welcoming my father to the 5 story hall filled with endless rows of seats looking down upon the empty black stage. His hand laid out flat in the air, feeling each seat as he walked in wonder. One of those walks where your eyes and thoughts are so far gone, that how he knew where to walk was amazing. His slow but long stride moved my father up the first batch of stairs to the second story balcony. He turned down each isle keeping his eyes located on the old wood stage in front of him. His feet sticky to the floor each time he took a step. The sound was as if someone was ripping tape. The ground was filled with salt....salt from every tear he ever drew. Salt from every person he hurt and who hurt him. Salt from abandonment, loss, happiness and the biggest one of all.....regret.
While still keeping his head forward and eyes glued to the stage, he blindly felt the arm rest with his left hand, and then sat down in the very back row on the second story. So far back.....he was almost hidden. Hidden from from what he had been hiding from his whole life. A big deep breath made his black v-neck shirt move up then down. His hands knocked against the arm rest as if he was singing a song. His head now rotated side to side, then up and down in a nervous scurry all around the huge auditorium. Excited for how far he has gone, but in fear for what lies ahead. At least one hundred skeletons from every angle of the stage slowly walked out to the stage each holding a different instrument. The skeletons were dressed in all black.....black like my dad's suits in the 90's. Black like the nights filled with smoke and snow. Black like the sports cars he used to drive when he was once rich. Black like the up all night nightmares. Black like the circles around his eyes, black like ashes from his burnt relationships. The skeletons took their place with such ease. No applause.....for there was no one else to watch my father. There was no one in the audience to watch my father play from the second row balcony. His fingers become stiff.....while his head tilted to the side. His v-neck turned into a tux, while his black circles slowly vanished from his face. And then it happened.......he started to play! The Orchestra of skeletons played loudly with him! The ground filled with salt as my father cried while the violin strings sung. His body now moving with rhythm. Side to side, his body moved while his eyes swayed violently with every stroke of his arm. Blood ran down his nose from playing so hard. The sounds of the violin was crying with pain and emotion. The strings were screaming as his eyes now laid closed and his eyebrows danced above his eyes. The skeletons on the stage were trying to keep up with him, but falling short from the speed and violence my father was playing with. The skeletons were smiling at each other as salt water began to creep up their white bony legs. At this pace they would all soon drown from my father's tears. The water was now up the the skeleton's necks. They raised their instruments high above the water to continue the song of my father's life. They played with passion. They played with joy and pride. As my father did the same.
The song stopped.......the Orchestra went dead quiet. My father's breathing was fast. His eyes slowly opened to an empty stage. The sweat was falling fast down his forehead stinging his eyes. He stood with weakness from the journey he just experienced. You could hear a pin drop from the silence that was surrounding him. Silence that usually haunted him....now gave him a sense of peace. He felt different, he felt light, he felt......well.....good. He made his way to the closet door that led him to this world he hasn't yet figured out, but at the same time completely understands. He opened the closet door to find all of his skeletons waiting for him on the other side. Hundreds packed into the doctor's office, all smiling from gaining their freedom, and seeing my dad gain his as well.
Let your skeletons from your past guide you to the future of tomorrow.
I love you, Dad. I am so glad we have rebuilt our relationship even bigger and better than before. Today is day one of the rest of our lives. I am glad my skeletons have met yours.
Welcome Father.........to The Dark Orchestra. 2016 & beyond
My eyes wander as my elbows meet my knees. My bouncing feet shake my body, swaying me side to side. My shoulders drop and my head swivels side to side as I reach down to drink my coffee. As if a boxer dodging a punch. My eyebrows raise at random times, as the skin on my forehead crunches together. Thoughts pinch my brain, as I slide both hands up my face and down the back of my head, only reaching for my coffee all in the same fluid motion. Smooth I move, patient I am not. Someone just walked into the gym... My head turned fast as if I have been up for three nights. Paranoid by sounds and people. Uncomfortable and completely vulnerable. A little head nod to the person who just walked in to train, duffle bag and all. My quick glance of hello is followed by a glance at his gym bag, as my eyes move a million little clicks around the man as he walks to his resting bench. Old but sturdy, tired but alive. A lonely weightlifter with a lonely bag, make for a perfect couple. A smile from memory, followed by an all to familiar pinch from my head that now turns my stomach as I lean further over my knees, making my elbows sting from the pressure of myself and a thousand skeletons I carry around with me scream with pain. The best fix for the weight you carry, is the weight you lift. I roar from my seat as a coach should, passion and fire spill out of my mouth, as my blood pumps through my body like the door opening to Maximus once he reunites with his family. Love for the game, and love for my team keeps my feet bouncing up and down with a certain rhythm that no one could repeat. Every athlete moves differently, every athlete must paint their own masterpiece. Every athlete must move to move, lift to make, and slam to succeed. A simple whisper in your ear from your past demons can make you lift weight you never thought could be possible. All this... I have been thinking while sitting in my small black chair in the middle of the gym.
A single sweat drop enters my eye ball. I never blink. Even though the pain is masterful, I keep looking forward at the rows of platforms that meet this wide open ocean. Dust replaced with sand scurries over the wood creating a small clicking sound and a loud whistle from the wind meeting the wide open beach. I still sit, now motionless from thought, and paralyzed from my surroundings. The smell of ocean you can probably smell just reading this blog. The cool air passing your body is refreshing but sad, as it passes you without any care in the world. It's true, you can read without reading, just like the wind can pass without stopping. You can lift without thinking just like the bar moves without trying. The beauty of sport is so beautiful.
Two old teammates living in separate rooms in an a warehouse off highway 65 that lays between an old dead wood tree and Mrs. Elders home by the old church. A small quiet town that unfortunately runs into an abandoned steel mill that has been shut down for a decade. Jobs lost and hard time followed, now home to myself and my teammate who breath cold floors and bathe in showers of unanswered questions. Bouncy balls thrown over and over against the walls of our rooms mix perfectly with the sound of rats that scurry behind the brown walls that we call shelter. We leave during the day, unnoticed and blending in. Lunch pail in hand, as the sound of beeping from the cash register finds a certain soothing feel to me and my friend as we ring people up before going about their lovely day. Mrs. Elders came into the store with her Saturday blue dress and her white gloves. Always a limp that seemed to come with a smile. She shuffled along the isles as we both kept an eye to see if she needed any help. I don't know why I did this, because she never did, I guess just keeping an eye on her was a natural instinct in some ways. I was once heaving 400 plus pounds over my head, and now I have found myself looking after an old lady shopping for bread and blueberries. Not such a bad thing since the next day she should be bringing my old teammate and myself some of the best blueberry short cake in the whole wide world. My over sized fore arm hit my friends inflamed elbow as we cracked a smile before hanging our white aprons on the hook by where the shopping carts filled into line, and then started our walk up the grassy meadows, down the rocky bank that use to be where they lit the steel on fire. I knew this because of all the black rock that cracked under our feet as we seemed to march not walk, to a song with nothing playing. It was almost like we were re playing all of our old training songs in our heads at all times of the day. And if one of us smiled it was definitely a missed lift followed with a little kid hissy fit. Grown men throwing fits is always the best. We approached the warehouse were we lived. The front door already open, almost as if the old shut down world was awaiting our arrival. Our eyes met...
Jon! my heart jumped out of my chest as Shankle shook my right shoulder. I was back in the middle of the gym, same place I started. My cheeks were drenched wet from my eyes never closing. A nightmare...? Or a great dream....? I couldn't figure out which one it was. I could still smell the ocean breeze, and I could still hear the beeping of the cash register. My actions and odd behavior didn't seem to faze Shankle at all. I couldn't figure out why. You would think he would have asked me what was wrong, if I was alright, or what i was doing sitting in the middle of the gym staring at God knows what. But nope... Nothing. His mouth was moving, but I could hear nothing. I was too busy analyzing the situation. Shankle has been to the same place I have been. Shankle has been on the beach, in the store, and in the warehouse. This was just a guess, but his understanding of the odd situation was too familiar. Too at ease. He then walked away. And I was once again left alone.
My breathing became heavy. My eyes finally shut. The sweat on my face dried as the wind from outside picked up. The sound of the fan by the door made my wrists move in circles. My body leaned back over the chair like a waterfall, as my back cracked at least six times. The crunches in my forehead smoothed like the dust on the platform. The windmill began to move gracefully, as my arms cut through the air in fast circles like a jet flying over a baseball game. My chin moved front to back, side to side, like the catch of the snatch, like the beauty of an athlete. The black oil ran down my face and into my joints, passing over my skin and into my bones. Oil to move, and muscle to improve. Strength to build and speed to gain. My Adidas shoes feel tight against my feet. My eyes soon change from focused to fierce. My body language turns from passive to aggressive. Confident to cocky. My blood, to Shankle blood. My skeletons behind me as I write ARNOLD down my arm. My hook grip becomes tight like suffocation. I am an athlete. I must move to live. Lift to love. I am a prisoner of my own self. My skeletons, lets lace our shoes and grab our belts. Stand up from this chair. My skeletons... Lets fight.
"My ears hear what others cannot hear. Small far away things people cannot see are visible to me. The senses are fruits of a long time of longing. Longing to be rescued, to be completed. I am not formed by myself alone. I wear my fathers belt tight around my mothers blouse, and shoes which are from my uncle. This is me. A flower does not choose its color. We are not responsible in what we have become to be. Only once you have realized this is when you have become free". - Unknown.
I truly tried......but could not part. You will see intensity like never before. I am back.
The other day, I went through my old gym bag looking for some old tape and a baseball for my athletes to use before training. I was fascinated by all the gadgets I came across while digging deeper and deeper into the land of memories and assortments. The horrible smell, the chalky straps, a graveyard of past champions that now lay quietly on the dark while the new generation of gym bags walk around prideful and tall. I am putting together a little museum.... I guess you could call it, of not only my medals, but everything from shoes, shirts, straps, belts, and all the things that have sentimental value to me from over the years. All things that have helped me along my way. Of course this museum of some sort is only for my eyes and viewership, for this "stuff" to others is pure trash and rubbish.
I then started to dash quickly around the room like a kid on Christmas, lining and organizing all my treasures. I was reminded of an old blog I once wrote, a blog that has seemed to be forgotten, by myself and others, a blog that was once my favorite, that needs to come back to life. So..... to anyone who has a smelly gym bag..... this one's for you.
A long stare at his old blue gym bag as it sat lop-sided beside him on the subway bench, waiting for the 7 o'clock train. There were no words being spoken from his long chin and stubble covered face, just a stone cold look and a thought of how this gym bag hasn't been replaced by now. How has the bag with so many stains, broken straps, and holes gone this long without being put to rest. A small crinkle in his forehead asked the bag if the old blue warrior was growing, and getting bigger over time. It looked as if the bag had grown at least a foot since the night before. He would know because the bag and him have been training partners since college back at Cal, and it was only last night that he stocked it with plastic bags full of supplements of all different colors and textures. He regretted not cleaning his two shaker cups better the night before while preparing for this trip, as he could smell them both seeping from the inside of the bag to his nose. Still no emotion, as his eyes glazed upon the bag with straps that were hanging on by a single thread from all the abuse they have seen. How they haven't broke by now will always be a mystery. Some say that trying to figure out weightlifting can lead to madness, for the sport never, and will never make sense. His head titled slightly down, and the crinkles in his forehead smoothed back out. His eyes hadn't blinked since he sat down, and the thought of becoming mad haunted him. How do you know when you have lost your mind? He asked the bag while looking back up. This time words came out from his mouth, while the person sitting across from him grabbed her two kids and scurried them away to the waiting bench three vending machines down. The bag did not reply. The bag just stared back at him while slightly molding itself deeper into the bench, as if to say he was done, and could not carry on from here. The yellow Cal label on the front of the bag facing him was turned brown from the years. He was saddened by the fact he just now noticed how worn the bag really was. His body still hadn't moved, but his eyes started to frantically flicker back and forth as if he couldn't figure out what to look at. Memories of slamming the gym bag against the wall out of anger. Dropping the bag down on the dusty gym floor while walking over it to get from resting bench to platform. Laughing weightlifters in the car after a long day of training, while his best friend and biggest supporter of so many years laid defeated in the trunk under boxes and old books. Memories and reminiscing of how well he used to treat his new bright blue bag when he first got into weightlifting, or back then just weight training / body building / wide feet power looking snatches and pose offs with his friends. A gym rat that had no plans or ideas of what he was doing, or wanted to do. All he knew back then was he loved the weight room, and the lifestyle the weight room produced. The blue bag was just as important as the weights. Just as food and bed are to recovery. Belts and coffee, chalk and music, all a family that you grow to know and love throughout this lonely sport of weightlifting.
A small smile crept across his face as the noise from a train passing by broke his long stare, waking him up to a darker than usual subway full of old newspapers and a cold gust of air coming from the stair case that led outside. He rubbed his hands together to get warm, while thinking about all the different ways he was going to treat his bag better from here on out. He opened his mouth wide while rubbing his cheeks with his hands to try to snap out of his trance and wake before the day passed him by. A weightlifter must learn how focus on both weightlifting and everyday life, sometimes at the same time. When these two completely different worlds meet they can cause doubt, confusion, and the worst of all....excuses. Learning how to be a weightlifter is the hardest part in learning how to be a weightlifter. The bag made a small noise from something inside moving out of place. He patted the bag with a broken smile and whispered as if he was talking to a puppy, "You know what I'm saying, right boy?". The bag looked back with a glow of appreciation and relief. The bag was just as much a weightlifter as the man, and the man knew he was just as much part of that bag as the bag itself. The man felt lighter from their talk. A sigh of understanding and respect. He was at first blind sided and taken back from how old the bag truly was, but was now proud of himself and the bag for keeping an honest relationship, and continually staying the best of friends.
The man pulled his hands away to straighten out his clothes in anticipation for his train the he could hear down the tunnel moving his way. The light from the train opened the subway up with a new perspective. The newspapers were not scattered around the floor nor were they dirty. The floor was clean and the vending machines where glowing bright. There were more people than he thought there was hustling and bustling around as if an army was forming to attack the day. The man opened his wide eyes and quickly turned to his bag, hoping that his bright blue Cal bag was young and strong as he always knew it to be. The bag laid half dead as its shadow crept down the bench towards the man. The man's eyes followed the dark shadow running into his hand that was structurally there supporting his excited lean towards the bag. The man noticed his hands. He picked both of them up and turned them side to side in front of his face. They were torn, bruised and old. They were stained yellow from the cigarettes he once smoked. Old chalk lived deep under his nails, and the blood paintings that webbed across his hands from broken blood blisters made sure that he was just as broken and used as the bag sitting beside him. The man has aged with his bag. The man then realized sitting on that subway bench, that he had become his own gym bag.
Metal Empire Productions Presents the newest Team AN video. Metal Empire will be documenting our young teams path to Gold, with behind the scene antics, interviews, recaps and more. Welcome to the family Metal Empire. lets take over the world.
