The Machine

July 31, 2012

Feeling battered and bruised. I’m into week five of punishing my body up to six days a week which sounds like a chore and it is. Or it was. Maybe we’re still there, I’m not entirely certain but I’ve been doing it because I know my body is not experiencing even a shred of its potential and so, once again, I’ve decided to push it. Wouldn’t you know it’s taken over a month to break through to the revelation that the pain doesn’t matter? The ache of my joints, the rapid fire breath and the hammer strikes of m heart against my chest are merely distractions.

I am no longer a man but a machine.

The workout is really just part of the experience. These last six months or so have really just been trimming away the fat even before I began chiseling away at this wasted frame when I decided I’d had enough. Enough of what? Everything. I exist in a community where people are afraid of the truth or they hide it behind a smile and kind words because that’s what Christians do. They pad the truth with niceties and supplications because anger or intensity doesn’t come from the tongue of a Christ-follower. Certainly not. And so now I feel a lot of anger towards people because it takes less muscles to smile than it does to frown.

Because being a Christian is all about doing things the easy way. Because being murdered by your own people is the easy way to redeem mankind.

What a waste.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe giving up on people because they say one thing and do another is just as hypocritical. Maybe it is. But I’ve become so tired of keeping running myself over with other peoples’ baggage as well as my own that I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to be a machine; stick to my schedule like I have been and keep moving when everything else gets hung up on details. I don’t want to feel anymore, only deal with input and output. I don’t want to feel like I’ve wasted large sections of my life on things that, in the end, just blow up in my face or end up with me holding the bag.

I’m tired of friends of convenience and friends who play at the surface level. And I’m sure they’re sick of me too. But I feel like I try and I put myself out there a lot. Now where once was compassion is a lot of sickness and bitterness.

Take me back to when things weren’t so ridiculous. When I didn’t exhale exhaust.

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