Anxiety comes and goes, as if like the tides. The moonlight pulls it back and forth. It is mesmerizing as you can see the reflection of the moon glisten on top of the silky ocean. It’s dark but still luminescent to the point where you can view the entire coast. A few flickering lights can be seen as if the reflections of the stars come and go intermittently across the ocean surface. Your eyes are encapsulated, fully stimulated, and your feet take a step closer to the water. Your mind believes there is freedom right past the tide, a few yards out. You feel the grains of sand dancing between all of your toes, and they caress your feet in a slight radiance of heat, saying to your skin, “You are home.” The breeze blows through and around your skin, and the goosebumps start to rise, to allow for as much contact between you and the air. The feeling of being alone seems to vanish. The wind also brings with it a sweet smell, connecting all your most precious memories with this place as you inhale the soft breeze with each breath. It brings with it a promise, a promise for your soul to rest. That promise seems to become realized as you take more and more breaths.

Next thing you know, you are halfway submerged in the water. It’s not recognized as the water feels as soothing as the wind. As the water pushes and pulls you slightly off balance from the tide, you begin to relax your shoulders. Your muscles all start to relieve themselves, fiber by fiber, from so much built-up tension, and you realize that you feel lighter, almost weightless. You continue to walk, up until the depth of the ocean floor leaves only your head above the surface. You stop to try and embrace this fully. As you do, your mind starts to reduce all of your thoughts but one. You think, “I could die here,” but not out of some sense of panic, rather relief. The gateway to alleviate all of your problems in this physical world is a few feet away, just a little deeper. As that thought lingers in your mind, you pose the question to your entire being, “Are you ready? Is this it? Are you done?”

Your body, aching and sore, responds first with little hesitation and full conviction, “yes.” Your mind follows with a similar vigor to that of your body’s response, “yes.” Your soul is last. There’s a bit of silence, as it needs time to process this, as the peace in this environment is so decadent. This silence seems to last hours, as if God himself permitted you this moment to ponder, to present to yourself the true answer. The air seems still, the tide subsides slightly, and the moon even seems to stop, all as a sign of respect to you. Then, finally, when the silence seemed a bit too long to bear, your soul speaks and says, definitively, “No, we are not done.”

Time begins to tick again, and your body and mind seem to build a bit of resentment towards your soul. So you turn back to shore and notice your steps are slower, consuming more effort than when entering. Your head is down as your mind and body say their goodbyes to an old friend, one that feels too soon. Your body takes its time to leave as it is disappointed by the answer.

You are finally out of the water, and the breeze begins to dry your skin. You realize how cold your body has become, and this reinforces that disdain you have. “So close, we were so close,” your mind thinks as you endure the evaporation of the soothing water from your skin. You finally dry and start to head home. Before you do, you take a final glance at the beach. As you take the last few breaths of fresh air, you realize something. You realize how strong a grip suicide actually had on you. You stop. Immediately, you fall to your knees as you shed tears from your eyes. You grow disappointed with yourself, and all those initial reactions to your soul have vanished. You quickly release all the disdain and resentment and apologize to it as you finally grasp how it saved you. No apology you say seems to be worthy enough of acceptance. But as you plead to your soul, it responds to you and says, “Its ok. We can mourn for a bit, but get up, we are not done.” The tears continue to fall, but you gain the composure to stand. Your first few steps feel like your two feet are nailed to the earth. The weight of guilt, of disappointment flood you.

As you are ready to collapse to the floor again, you hear a unique voice, one distinct from your own self. “Walk. Now is the time to walk. Reduce yourself to a simple being. Let the only thought in your head be walk.” And those words filled your legs with just enough energy to take a step, and then another. With each step, that weight of suicide, of depression, of anxiety, all lessen, but by only by a feather. However, it is still noticeable, even if it is only slight, as your body is suspended in a state of full awareness. But you don’t rejoice. You know how fragile your knees are, and so you must stay focused. That voice comes back again and says, “Walk. Walk until your legs are strong enough to carry this weight. Walk until your shoulders are strong enough to hold your head high. Walk. Walk to regain yourself.”

Time passes, maybe a day or two since the visit to the beach. The intensity of that moment still resides in me; however, the memory comes with a slightly duller sensation. I try not to focus on it, but it continues to linger in the back of my mind as I wonder, Am I strong enough? If I go back there again, will I be strong enough to pull myself back again? My mind draws a blank when trying to answer, so I compartmentalize and throw it to the back of my mind, creating a bit of chaos as I do so. So to fight it, instinctually, my body fidgets to forcefully create distractions from that memory. I don’t know what to feel or think at this point. I am still in shock. My mind seems to be suspended in a position between the past and present. That moment gripped me so much that I can’t recall of any other memories prior to that.

Each hour passes with that memory anchoring me, almost yearning for me to go back. I look around my room seeing glimpses of that memory, being triggered with almost anything as my mind is actively making connections to remind myself of it. I try to stay occupied in any way possible, but with my body fidgeting so much it makes any task I do much more difficult. My concentration is dulled, and my mental capacity is not up to par. This creates more tension in myself, as my body wants to move, almost uncontrollably, but my mind wants to wander back to that place. I bounce around starting up different chores and tasks throughout the day as my mind cannot stay focused on something for too long. I realize I’ve taken too many things on at once and I can’t finish them in the time I initially allotted. But I continue on. As the day goes by, I am able to chip away at all those little chores, cleaning, laundry, groceries, cooking, etc. Everything I do today seems hollow. It seems like these tasks don’t even need to be done. Their sole purpose is to pass the time, to distract myself.

The sun begins to fall, and the stars begin to present themselves, and the moon relieves the sun for the night. It seems like when the sun was up, it provided my body the yearning to move. But as the moon rises, my mind is what finally receives sustenance. My body loses its grip on my mind as it has expended its energy during the day, and now my mind has free rein to wander to the valleys that hold these thoughts and memories. The moonlight is the catalyst to the honest conversations with myself and evaluate some festering ideas or thoughts. This time, there is only one memory in the queue, the beach. Nothing prior to that moment seemed to even matter. I want to ask how I got there, what led me to that place. These questions have merit, but I feel it is not the time to answer them. The real questions I need to answer are, “Where do I go from here? Where am I supposed to go?” Direction. That is what I need. I need to know where to walk and for how long. Destination, “Where am I supposed to go?” This beach, it means something, something more than the place where I almost gave up. So to try and find out, I allow myself to play that memory again. It feels just as vivid as the day I lived it. My mind wants to dive again, but I try and stay composed, so that I can stay separated from that memory. “I am only a spectator, nothing more,” I say to myself. And so, as I see this person, this reflection of myself, walking into the water, I feel that darkness hovering over me again. This time its grip is not as strong, but I remember how tantalizing it felt in the moment. I gaze at the ocean surface and notice that flickering light again. I believed it to be the stars dancing in the night sky, but I analyze further. I notice it has a consistent rhythm. On—off—on—off—on—off, and so on. I try to investigate the scenery a bit further to determine the source. And as I do, I notice a silhouette from a distance, right before the horizon. My mind finally puts two and two together and realizes it’s a lighthouse. It evaded my focus last time as I was encapsulated by the temptations of death, but my eyes still were able to store its image.

As the cycles of the light continue, I get drawn to them more and more. I ask myself, Is that where I need to go? Is that where my life lies?” As I ask that question, it syncs up with the pause in the memory. God has granted me the time again to answer this, but from a new vantage point. My soul is the only thing to answer, as my body is resting and my mind is the vessel. And so, I hear from it, “Yes. That is where your destiny lies.”

I ponder this for a moment and ask myself repeatedly, Is this truly my destiny?” as if to cast out any doubt. Every time I ask myself this, my soul responds with a resounding yes. I close the curtains to that distinct memory, as two feelings fill me: excitement and fear. The excitement comes from my soul finally able to picture at least some kind of path to follow, a dream. In the past, it has pushed me to try and answer these questions, but it has received no answer. Finally, after so much time avoiding this question, I was forced to answer. It pushed me to a place where I almost collapsed, breaking myself down to the point of almost nothing. Only after doing so, could I be free to answer it truthfully. And as ashamed as I felt for allowing myself to reach that point, I gained a resurgence of vigor in my soul. It energizes me and makes me want to swim across the ocean right now, but fear is what pulls me back. This fear isn’t artificial or self-made, meaning it is not formed from any negative feedback or vicious cycle. No, this fear is primal, as if facing a predator or foe that you know is greater than you in every domain. But what is that foe? The ocean. The strong current coupled with the evolving tides are able to take me at any moment. I’ve realized this almost instantly, as if a divine moment of intuition. It will be my biggest obstacle to be able to trek along the surface of that ocean, an ocean full of my regrets, sorrows, pains, willing to take me at any moment.

So this is my prerequisite before beginning this pursuit of my destiny. That requirement, “To build my mind and body to withstand the poisons of fear and still move forward.” I must build myself from that broken man at the beach to something almost too great for this world to hold. I must build myself to a being that can conquer the ocean. But how do I do that? How do I even embark on such a task? How do I transcend to a being that is fully realized? Nothing comes to mind. It seems like that journey to that lighthouse will need to be postponed. How do I build myself up without knowing what I’m building? Or with what material? But the biggest question of them all, what’s in my way? I stand up from my bed, head to the closest mirror, and see the reflection. A question comes to mind. “Who are you?“ Silence is all that I hear. I see this character and he is familiar, but only just. We share the same face, the same body, but nothing more. I ask again, “Who are you? “Again, I hear nothing.

I start to analyze these questions, and the more I do, the more strain I put on my brain. I want the answers to them all. It fuels a fire inside of me. So to help quell it, my mind repeats these questions over and over again, to the point of exhaustion. My body takes over again, again instinctually just like earlier this morning, and begins to fidget. My mind is asking for new stimuli in order to give myself new information in the hopes of finding the answers I desire. But no matter how much I fidget or move around, nothing is able to bring out an answer. After a few hours, I resign myself for the night.

As I head to my bedside, I feel a small glimmer of hope that my dreams will provide something for me, even if just a clue. And at the moment I lay down my head, I feel a sense of delight. It’s small but still present, and big enough that I am able to notice. I ask, “Why do I feel this? And why now?” The answer is simple enough for my mind to reach, even though it is exhausted. Just one night ago I felt the deepest sorrow, the greatest drift and detachment from this world. Just one night ago, I felt death hover over my shoulder, as if consoling with an old friend. But tonight, still feeling all of that despair has sparked just enough light in my soul to cast out my demons, at least for the night. Tomorrow when I wake up, I know they are likely to be back, and just as strong as the night, but I only want to focus on tonight. It feels like with this dim light I can illuminate the first few steps of this journey. The journey will soon start, and it excites me. However, right now, the body must rest so that the mind can temporarily lose its tether to this world and enter the domain of dreams. Soon, I will find the answers. I’m so sure of it that it’s almost ironic. Just one night ago, I wanted to give in, to let the ocean take me and never come back to shore. But today, I set my mark past it, to a place I don’t know, but with a yearning to find out.

Upon waking, my body is stiff and sore, and my muscles are restraining from moving. I’ve grown accustomed to this, but my mind feels slightly refreshed. It feels as if just having the spec of hope allowed my mind to actually rest. And upon my waking moments, I try to recall any dream I had. I try to keep those images floating in my head or else they will soon dissipate without the sustenance of mental focus. As I try to recount any images, they all seem scrambled, pixelated in a sense. No image is truly clear and no matter how hard I try to clear that fog, those images stay ambiguous. It deflates me a bit, as I had hoped to be able to find some new clues to the questions I posed myself last night. So I decide to get up out of bed with two prevailing thoughts in my head, one of the beach and the other of the lighthouse. Those seem to be the only two sharp images in my head, and they will linger until I have conquered them. These answers will not merely present themselves, I am aware enough to know this, so I get up.

I first make my bed, but with a bit more diligence in making sure it looks presentable, even if only to myself. I look around the floor and tidy up any misplaced shoes or clothes, things that I would normally would leave as they are. Not much is out of position after all the cleaning from the day before. Next, I go to the bathroom and wash my face with soap and scrub with a little deeper scrub, being sure to hit the crevices with more intention. I brush my teeth for a little bit longer and more thoroughly than usual. All of this is done in response to trying to answer those questions, “Who are you? Who do you want to be? How do you realize your potential?”Regardless of what I think that answer may be, or what the process is to find that answer, my standard of being, of living, must elevate as well. My mind is responding to the stimulus of these questions, almost forcing upon me this elevated standard.

I dress myself and decide to actually style my hair, something I have barely done recently. I wear a newer polo shirt. It’s black with a good taper from my shoulders to my waist and drapes over my chest well, to create an illusion of a thinner waist as my stomach presides just behind it, without touching. The sleeves ride a bit higher than normal showing off a bit more curvature of the arms and the tattoo sleeve that covers my left arm. I wear denim jeans that have a tapered fit to show off a bit of the muscles in my legs. I work out enough to have built a strong physique and decide to present myself in a dignified manner to be able to show off a bit of that progress.

I glance at the mirror and don’t recognize who I see, for he seems like a façade. Doubt begins to creep in my head asking, “How long will you be able to pretend this person is you?” I don’t proceed to answer it, I compartmentalize, something I have grown to be good at. I continue to look in the mirror and overanalyze every flaw of that character in front of me. The question, “Who are you?” pops up in my mind again. I want to go back and get different clothes, some that are a bit more “appropriate for work.” Yet the reason I don’t is because it would take too much effort. I feel stuck in these clothes and decide to leave dressed as I am. I proceed to put on my work boots. They have some wear on them, and the creases around the toe line are becoming a bit more prevalent. They sit just above the ankle and hug my feet well. They are comfortable at least, but I know they don’t necessarily fit with the rest of this outfit.

I open the door and begin to head out of my room, and as I do, a thought pops into my head, Who am I? I may not know that person in the mirror, but for now, I will act as if we are the same. I will present myself as a confident man, as these clothes require me to do so. When I come home and remove these clothes, then I can come back to being who I am. It’s a proclamation that I will not let the world see how broken I truly am. I’m broken. Finally, I’m not afraid to admit it to myself. My soul has been damaged, but the vigor in myself is in response to the challenge of restoring that broken man so that one day I can wear these clothes again but filled with true confidence. Until then, “fake it till you make it,” is what I repeat in my head.

I take some steps downstairs and realize that my stomach is growling. I head to the fridge and do a quick scan of what is inside. Nothing seems enticing for me to eat. I would initially go straight to the cupboard where the Oreos are. I’ve always had a bit of a sweet tooth, and I would typically want to eat a half dozen cookies coated with a bit of peanut butter. I found this routine to be much easier than my old habit of trying to make a balanced breakfast, so I grew complacent to it. That simple sugar is something my body always can eat and has been something I’ve had to rely on as of late to have any sense of sustenance. I’ve tried to make many typical breakfast meals—oats, eggs, toast—but they all seem to not agree with my stomach. But I want to uphold this new standard for myself, so I go and make a bowl of oatmeal and decide to save the cookies for after. Each spoon of oats I ingest makes my stomach more and more uncomfortable, and I wonder why. I grab the box of oats and examine it quickly. I realize that its past the expiration date by over a year. It’s really been that long? How bad did I slack on my diet? I stop eating the oats and just pray that it doesn’t get me feeling any worse.

I leave for work with my stomach still a bit upset from the breakfast. I pack a few snacks (mainly more cookies) to get myself through the day. There is a bit of dread upon stepping into my truck. I begin the drive to work where I am prepared to spend ten to twelve hours. Each hour I spend there seems to be more and more unfulfilled. The drive only makes me soak in that feeling of dread even more. I see the same dull brown hills and mountains surrounding my view in every direction. The Reno skyline can be beautiful, but the drive to work makes it feel like the mountains are closing in on me. I take the longer route to try and find an excuse to not go to work, but I still arrive on time. I wonder why this disdain has been more prevalent than usual and finally make the distinction that it’s been the first day back since the beach. In the short time between now and then, I’ve become further disconnected from everything. As I walk through the front door, nobody really notices anything different neither my demeanor nor my attire. At least, I don’t have to put much effort into holding up this façade. It allows me to focus on the job.

I work in an industrial setting, machining cement into specific shapes using very specific material. The entire factory calls them saws, but they’re much too intricate to be called something so primitive. Most of the factory contains equipment focused on producing the cement slabs. These machines never seem to stop moving as production needs seem to be more important than human needs. The entire plant runs 24/7 with every hour of the day and every day of the week being covered, even holidays. The scale of that machinery is so much bigger than I have ever worked on. They tower over any person. They reach so high that they almost want to grow past the ceiling. They all work in unison, so it is hard to find where one ends and the other begins. But the machines I am in charge of are not part of this main line. They sit at the end of the factory, as if cast out due to its uniqueness in nature, something I feel we have in common. They take the slabs and cut them to form specific shapes.

The nature of the job is toxic, in many ways more than just physical. The dust created can create very unhealthy conditions in the human body. The machines use specialized cutting blades to make these shapes, one by one as they run down the assembly line. Any noise you make is drowned out from the high pitch of the cutting equipment. I get down to the plant floor where the machinery is and have to be suited up with my hard hat and ear/eye protection. So the hair that I put some effort into making look nice is hidden and will likely be ruined by the end of the day. The plant floor is only a few thin walls away from the outside environment. When the dry heat rises, the plant temperature also does, but with no motion in the air. It is a stale section of the world it seems. The heat cooks you and makes just standing uncomfortable. When the heat leaves during the winter months, your body will react to even the faintest breeze of wind. The temperature drops so low that even the air becomes chaotic, as it fidgets around in an effort to warm itself up. This place is stagnant, as if a physical representation of my state of being. A lot of the similarities have become noticeable, for when that beach almost engulfed me, it shook my entire vantage point. Seeing the same environment with a new lens is a bit eye-opening. I can even begin to notice that the workers all walk as if soul-less beings, robots. No emotions on anybody’s face, and with uniforms to make them all look the same. Each person has a distinct silhouette, but they all still look and act if they are the same person.

I look at the shift lead, the man who trained me on the machines I am now in charge of, and I see the same thing. He is a bigger figure, standing a few inches above six feet, and towers over me (I’m only five-foot nine). He has a worn look on his face, as this place has taken a toll on him. The only other distinguishable feature is the size of his arms and hands. It’s a product of the countless years of manual labor here. Anything else that is unique about him is lost in the uniform.

He sees me walk in and says, “Good morning, sunshine.”

“What’s up, Cory? How are you?”

“Oh, you know, living the dream. How was your weekend?”

I almost panic as it sparks the vivid imagery of the beach. It is still too fresh in my mind. But I somehow compose myself and respond trying to avoid that topic as much as possible. The environment helps hide some of the instinctually reactions of panic.

“It was all right. Nothing special to note. How did the saws run this weekend?”

“Good. I didn’t get a text at all from the crews. What about you?”

I realize that I haven’t checked my phone since last week. These machines are new. Since me and Cory are the only ones who are adequately trained on the machinery, we are the ones to be called for help. If we can’t figure out the problem, then we typically have to get outside help, and the company doesn’t like to exhaust those resources before they exhaust us, literally.

I respond, “I didn’t check my phone, but I figured any problem the crews had, I’d walk into them today to deal with. I’ll take a look at the saws if I have a chance. Do you know the run schedule?”

“Yeah, you’re good to check and do some maintenance. We’ll be running the other machines for the next few days. I have to run the shift or else I’d help.”

“No worries, man. I’ll get to work on it.”

Every week there are a few days that these machines are idle, and it gives me and Cory time to do some maintenance on them, since our maintenance department does not know what to do with this equipment, either. I get to work on doing some inspection and maintenance on the saws. The day is filled with repetitive tasks of checking motors, aligning parts, calibrating the accuracy of the machine, inspecting blades, checking inventories of blades, and a list that would take pages to finish writing. This all has to be done before the next time these machines are set to run, but I can’t get it all done today because I have desk work that needs to be done.

The first day of the week, I need to mine data and present it to the managers on how well these machines have been running every week. It takes hours to find the appropriate data, clean it up, and present it to in the format the managers like. With that comes a common theme from the managers that “We could be doing better. These machines need to keep pushing out more product.” What they haven’t realized is the growth of production has skyrocketed, but how the data is presented it makes it seem like the machines have not changed output. In reality, it’s doubled, close to tripled.

The manager’s meeting approaches quickly. Time flies after doing all the repetitive tasks. I get the data and set up the presentation in the usual PowerPoint format that they like. I walk in with greasy hands, some holes in my vest and a noticeable amount of dust (from the saws) as I had no time to wash up. I scan the room, and everybody glances at me, some with disdain. I can only assume that they are thinking, “This guy can’t even clean up before the most important meeting of the week?”

The meeting details how each department does, and the main line is the center of attention. My part in the meeting is relegated to a mere four or five slides, but as I stated, those four or five slides take hours to present the information that they ask for. As the meeting progresses, my slides are up, and the manager shifts his focus to me. He’s a slim figure, but his title holds a lot of power and he isn’t afraid to show it. He is also probably the smartest one in the room and will know if any number is off the mark, or if there were any corners cut. His concentration in his stare can make even lions tremble I’m sure.

“All right how did the saws do last week?”

“They did well. There were some issues with a few products not providing us proper cut quality. I think it can be attributed to board quality coming from us by the main line.”

He immediately challenges that. “And how do you know it was from the main line?”

I grow anxious as this overpowering figure is in front of me is challenging what I’m saying and I begin to stumble.

“Well…uh...It’s a bit evident in some of the boards that they…they aren’t straight.”

“How do you know it’s not from the machine skewing the boards?”

“Well...I…I guess I could check some of the drive mechanics.”

“Please do, and report back to us next week.”

“Copy that.”

I know full well that the machine is fine. I just spend half a day in there verifying as much as I could, but his overwhelming presence made me lose my confidence and back down. I leave that meeting deflated even more, and a whisper of the thought, “Not good enough” plays in my head. I ignore it for now. There’s still time left in the day to get some work done.

The work seems meaningless, making high-end product for people who don’t know or really care how rigorous the work can be. Everybody here works in the shadows of society, just like many industry jobs. The place adds validation to the nihilistic idea, “You are meaningless, and nothing matters here.” That idea has grown a foothold in my mind and reigns dominion over me especially while under the factory’s roof. But as I am, something or someone keeps you here. I start to relinquish those ideas for now, as there is work to be done.

Hours pass and it is finally time to leave. Ten to twelve hours at the plant drain me. I begin the trek back home but seem to always carry a bit of the stress with me. As I drive, I notice that my eyes feel heavy behind the wheel and time is slowed. What usually is a thirty-minute drive back home feels like three hours, almost like work itself is intentionally pulling the clock back just to squeeze a few more minutes of production. After those draining minutes, I finally make it home, and all I want to think about is the next task at hand, showering. I slowly take off my boots and feel like I’ve lost fifty pounds alone, not just from the boots but also from the sweat I lost during my shift. I realize that I looked too far ahead. Before I can shower, I need to make it upstairs. What would normally feel like an easy task seems like hiking a mountain as my legs have little energy left to carry my weight. I notice that slight bit of hope I had this morning and last night has been drowned out by the all the stresses at work. I don’t have enthusiasm to finish the day, so I resort to only willpower and pride. That pride is a vain attempt at self-esteem. It merely tells me, “Get up. This is not the place to quit. Don’t show anybody that you’re a quitter. You were raised better.” So those words fueled me, reminiscent of how my soul carried me away from the beach, and I make it upstairs. I see my bed and am tempted to just fall asleep but remember the standard I started to implement in the morning. Begrudgingly, I stay standing, undress, and turn on the shower. The water hits my shoulders first and alleviates some tension, not all of it, though. But it is enough to enjoy these few moments of free time I have for myself. I get out with my mind and body slightly reinvigorated and still have yet to realize how hungry my body is. It has been patient all day and reduced its yells for sustenance as it too knew that work needed to be done and any distractions would be a hindrance to that.

I get dressed for bed and head downstairs as my body begins to excrete more ghrelin to signal its hunger. I repeat my breakfast, almost exactly. Some oats, a few eggs, and about a half dozen Oreos. It’s not fully satisfying, but it’s enough to get me through the night. As I finish my last few bites, I start to mentally prepare for another heavy day, but I forget that tomorrow morning prior to work I need to go the gym. The early morning is the only time in which I am willing to get up and go. So I set my alarm for a few hours earlier, and instantly a bit of resentment is formed. To think I have to wake up at 3AM to just have an hour to stay physically healthy. It’s irked me ever since I started this job a few years ago. But no matter, I see it as work that needs to be done. I begin the walk back to bed, and to my delight that glimmer of hope has returned to me. I remember the excitement I had to want to enter my dreams again, to unearth just one clue to these questions in my mind.

Suddenly, I feel the urge to skip the gym to have more sleep but not for any physical sustenance. No this is merely to allow my mind further opportunity to explore that realm of dreams. I want those answers to those questions that are anchoring a part of me to the beach. But I also remember what I recognized this morning of that raised standard. Unfortunately, I deny my soul’s request to sleep, for that work needs to be done in the morning. I want my mind to find the answers I yearn for but do not allow it any new resources. I do not have much capacity to reach any further, I have spread my resources too thin already. Something does not resonate as I think. Have I not tried hard enough? Am I doing this wrong? What am I supposed to do? The time winds down, so I go to sleep, but now those few thoughts have some company. I stay determined to answer all of them, but for now, work.

Upon waking, it is the dead of night still, 3 AM. My body wakes up resentfully, trying to fight me so it can stay in bed and rest. But I force myself up, brush my teeth, get dressed, take some caffeine, and head out the door. Those small processes seemed blurry as my mind struggles to keep up with my body. My mind feels like it is moving through a thick heavy fog. It has no recollection of any previous step and needs to concentrate fully to make sure to know where to place the next step. My mind and body have a lag between them. I get in the truck and start driving to the gym and get drowned by many old thoughts, memories, and regrets. It’s the only time I can feel a bit vulnerable, so I allow myself to indulge in it. I take a glance at my silhouette in the rear-view mirror, and I get the urge to ask myself, “Who are you?”

I hear a response from my heart. “I am you…I am the one who took you to the beach.”

I grow infuriated, as if talking to an enemy as I reply, “Are you serious? Why would you even consider that? Why did you drag me there to die?”

“Look at us. Look at everything you’re doing to us. You get so caught up in your ego that you’re killing yourself anyways, and for what? Nothing. Nothing but pride. And you leave me here in an empty body with nothing to comfort me, with nobody by your side. I had to try and put us out of our misery.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t trust a single word you say. Get out of my head. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody. I can do this alone.”

“Keep thinking that and see where it leads us.”

That voice dissipates as I near the gym and I think, “This is all fuel.” A second thought comes as I get to the gym. Maybe today I can kill those demons, those old lingering thoughts. If I go just a bit harder, dig a bit deeper, and maybe I can shut out that voice, too. I hope that maybe by releasing all of my energy with these thoughts as fuel that any remnant of those thoughts will vanish.

I walk through the gym doors, as if entering into a battlefield. The gym is small with new and well-maintained equipment and is a relaxed environment. There’s ample lighting everywhere, but I want to battle in the darkness, so I put my hoodie on to drown some of that light from my eyes. The air conditioning is on and the room is in good condition. It seems like a normal, inviting fitness center. But for me, it marks the terrain for internal war. Such a dichotomy, how such an open environment can still be seen as a warzone to some. As I gain fuel form these old regrets, I start to move around. I want to sweat, to leave a pool of it and in it those dead memories. I want that feeling of exhaustion when I leave.

My body now is the one to lag as it needs a small jolt to feel that proprioception. It needs to recognize that it is in a place of movement, that it needs to move here. The warm up begins, and I lie down on a bench to begin training. As more weight gets added to the bar incrementally, my mind dives deeper into those valleys of old memories. It needs fuel, I think. I work up to a weight that’s resistant, and that’s exactly what my body needs to feel awake. I start lifting this weight. As the number of repetitions increases one by one, my mind is presented with a dilemma. The first option, to complete the set and re-rack. The second option, to continue on until I physically can’t move this weight. I have this dilemma with each repetition, and with each repetition, I choose the second option again and again. I repeat this cycle until the muscles in my arms cannot fully complete one more repetition, and even then, there is a bit of contemplation as if to say, “Why not, what else is there to live for or preserve myself for?” But I decide to finish the exercise there, for I want to continue that feeling of exertion. The battle has not yet achieved the goal of extinguishing those old memories. Exercise after exercise this dilemma is repeated in an effort to quell that urge to kill those thoughts. Finally, my body reaches the point of mechanical failure. My muscles cannot move anymore weight, even lifting my arms presents a struggle, but that urge is still present. There is still fuel in the reservoir which says to me that those memories are still very much alive.

I can’t move anymore weight, so I jump on the treadmill to run. There is not much time to do so as the hour for work soon approaches. So I crank the speed up to a pace that is hard to maintain for fifteen minutes. For fifteen minutes, I run as hard as I can with only one thought in my mind, Kill. Kill that old self. Kill those old memories. Silence that voice in your heart. Just by repeating those words in my head, the primal instinct begins to kick in and allows the body to move a bit faster. I run now as a predator chasing prey. As I feel like I have come close to that prey, those fifteen minutes have elapsed, and I grow disdainful. Emotionally, I still ride that endorphin high as I breathe heavy trying to recover air. There was more in the tank, at least that’s what it feels like in the moment. Once my body heat starts to drop and I recover my heart rate from the battle, it’s noticeable how tired I really am. I can’t move my arms and my legs feel like gelatin. I feel proud, for I pushed more than most normally would. There is still work ahead of me for the day. I have another grueling shift in a place that is segregated from the world. I reflect on some of the eye-opening things that I was finally able to see and just the thought of going back there deflates me.

I go home and get ready for work. I enter the front door, and the house is still, with even the air being passive. I take my running shoes off and start peeling off the layers of clothes, all coated with sweat. I get upstairs, with heavy legs, and get ready, and a recurring thought pops in my head. “Why…why am I doing this? Why do I make it hard for myself? Maybe that voice was right.”

I get in the shower and it refreshes me a bit, as if cleaning off the blood from war. I seem to peel off a layer of myself and renew myself a bit, just so that when I get to work people won’t notice that demeanor of the broken man. As I’m getting ready, I reflect a bit on the day so far and recognize that I am intentionally giving myself a crutch, almost as if I need to prove to God that these challenges are too easy for me. I exhaust myself on purpose to make the grueling day even harder. Throw yourself in the fire, I think, but why? What purpose does doing this hold? My mind draws another blank. I think, At one point, I would’ve never asked myself this question. I would have merely put my head down and worked, regardless of how I felt. That’s enough contemplation for now. I have to make it to work on time.

The hours pass slowly, as another lengthy day at work finishes. Much of yesterday’s sentiment is still present, and I feel the boring patterns take a toll. I get home and simply want to pass out, but I can’t. I remember that today there is martial arts class. Instant dread fills my heart as I don’t want to go, but the feeling of creating discipline makes me.

I change my clothes and wash my face slightly and drive over to the dojo. I drink some more caffeine in an effort to be able to keep my eyes awake for the drive. Again, that question I ask is, “Why?” It seems as though I continue to run away from these questions. I know this and want to change this, but I feel as if now is not the time. I don’t want that answer to be blank, so I decide to not answer, thinking I found a loophole to the question. I just want to focus on getting to class, I think.

Throughout the drive, I try to squeeze out any ounce of motivation to be able to make it through the class. I make it on time, a bit early in fact, and sit in the truck. There is a quietness, a stillness between now and the time class starts. I play some music to fill that emptiness, but a bit of uneasiness grows in my stomach. Shortly after, doubt comes in and says to me, “Just go home. You’re tired. You aren’t in the mood. Just leave.” And I consider it more than I would have liked, but I know that it’s partially true. My body is starting to feel drained from the day, but more importantly, my mind is tired. I don’t know if I can exert any more energy.

Sheer will is the only thing moving my body now. As the starting time for class approaches, I step out of the car and head into class. I must use each step before I enter the dojo to compose myself, to put up that front of being “ok.” I do a good enough job to not pique anybody’s attention as I enter. I try to go through class with the same enthusiasm as when I first started this martial art, judo, years ago. I still remember why I joined in the first place, to cover a scar with more pain. But I found some enjoyment in it and decided to continue as a devoted monk does his prayers. I notice that it has been easier to put up this front of presenting myself as ok. I warm up with the team and look around the dojo to gaze at the environment I once called a second home. The feeling of drifting apart made me also drift from this place for a short period of time. But even so, I feel like I’ve gone too far that no place feels like home anymore, not even the house I bought myself and reside in.

I look around the dojo to see who will be in class today. Looks like there are a few good comrades and the normal lineup of instructors. The dojo is an open space, not many things out of place or in the way. The martial arts mats sit below a high ceiling where if you look up you can see all the rafters. It’s a bright room. It seems like that every crevice of this room is illuminated. The walls are white but full of pictures of past sensei/masters and added ornaments of specific accomplishments of previous and current students. It provides a sense of glory to this place. The mats are a royal blue, only adding to that honor this place holds. They are gentle enough to take impact from, but also distinctly firm. As you slide your feet along them, you feel a faint embossed texture, resembling the stitching that was done to form each mat tile.

Running around doing the warm ups pulls me into a headspace, parallel to the one in the gym earlier. It’s a fine line between being mentally present, in the moment, and drifting away into a realm of detachment, to a place of internal warfare. That place flickers on and off in my head. What tethers me to the current moment is the comradery, even if only physical. There are people willing and able to partake in this physical exertion with me, and it mitigates the feeling of loneliness, even if only slightly. Then I remember why I continue doing this sport, for the people. I look at everybody around me, some are older, some are younger, others taller, others smaller. There is such a diverse range of people in this room all willing to do this together, all people I likely wouldn’t have met if it weren’t for doing this sport. It keeps my head above water and my mind at ease until the class is over. Throughout class, I do all the drills and conditioning diligently, with no cut corners. I gasp for air after so many drills but keep persevering. My shoulders begin to ache and my hands become weak, making it difficult to even grip on my own gi. There’s a distinct feeling here. Something I can’t quite describe in the midst of “battle.” I don’t spend much time pondering because I need to just get through class. Persevere, that word continually pops up and is repeated in my mind over and over in an effort to draw energy from it. Finally, class reaches its end, and that first breath after the instructor yells “Sore made.” (Japanese phrase for meaning “finished”) is so relieving.

As I begin to change and get ready to leave, I ponder, “Battle.” I thought about that word sporadically throughout class. At surface level, I think it only as my mind describing what I just went through, controlled violence. But that explanation still seems hollow, incomplete. I want to wander into my own headspace to keep thinking about this, but the main instructor comes up to me and starts a conversation.

“Hey, good practice today, senpai (meant to mean a higher-ranking class member). I saw some good hustle and good counter techniques today. Keep up with the strong gripping techniques and stay active in the sparring rounds”

“Thanks, sensei. I’ve just been working on trying to keep up with all the other guys. They’re all working really hard.”

“They see you work hard, too. Don’t sell yourself short. Are you ready for the upcoming tournament this weekend?”

I’ve been in my own headspace that I didn’t even realize that there was a tournament coming up. I don’t want to feel rude or disappoint him so I come up with an excuse on the spot.

“No, sensei, I have to work. I have to cover for somebody this weekend. I’m sorry.”

I notice a bit of disappointment in his face as he replies,

“Oh, it’s all right, senpai. We’ll sign you up for the next one. I think that one will be in Las Vegas.”

“Ok, sensei. Let me know the dates, so I can let work know which days I need to take off.”

I don’t want to let him or the team down, but I feel like I am. Being a senpai means to always be a good example for the lower ranks. And lying to my coach made me feel like I didn’t deserve the title of senpai anymore. I just want to go home.

As I enter my truck and take a seat, the fatigue has risen to the point where I have to acknowledge it. Adrenaline from the class is the only thing holding the fatigue at bay. I pray that it is enough to get back home safely. As I passively ponder that word, “battle,” my mind actively runs simulations of what I learned in class. I think of different ways techniques could have been applied or how to make techniques more efficient, as if finding different ways to solve the puzzle. It keeps my eyes awake and attentive for the drive.

The truck is finally parked, and I head back inside. My body has cooled down enough to realize how tired it truly is. There is no more mental or physical capacity for anything else in the day, just as I felt the day before, only the depths of today’s fatigue seem to dive a bit deeper. The repetitions of the days are taking their toll. Again, I try to force some food down as I recognize I haven’t eaten much all day, and just the energy required to do so becomes more difficult with every bite. I push through and finally am able to head upstairs to close out the day. In the shower, I take extra time, not because the water feels good, even though it does, but because I don’t want to move much anymore.

Once I muster up the energy to finish, I head to bed with no thought at all. I have worn myself out completely. The sting of setting my alarm is the last thing I remember feeling that day. It doesn’t matter what time that alarm clock is set for. I just want to fall asleep and will wake up when told to do so. Five hours is all that I am given, but those five hours were peaceful and rejuvenating. However, it is not enough to be able to recoup enough recovery from the last few days. I must dig deeper into that pit of fatigue for these next few days.

Four o clock, that’s when I have to get up. I fight my body’s urges to stay in bed, and even my soul’s plea to rest. My pride, my discipline, those are the only things that carry me up and push my body to move. I move with no real intention, with the only objective to keep moving in order to stay awake. Once a few minutes pass, my mind is finally engaged and aware. It notices the drained state my body is in. But I distract myself from this feeling by thinking about what I have to accomplish for the day at work. The sting of just thinking of work is present, just knowing that I have to go back to that miserable place. But even that is more manageable than the overwhelming fatigue of the body. As I drive to work, my mind easily wanders and reflects on the past few days. I recall the memory of the beach. It seems so distant, as if the last few days have wedged so much space between then and now. But it still holds so much value to me. It breeds a fire in my soul, one that makes me want to turn around, leave everything behind, and run. Run towards that dream that burned so brightly days ago. How do I preserve the light of these embers that house this dream? I can’t continue to run away from this much longer. But I am chained to work, to the life that I have accepted by inaction. I feel disappointment brewing in my heart, so to combat this, I push this memory back into Pandora’s box. I know exactly what I’m doing. I am compartmentalizing again and accepting the consequences. But I know that soon this dream will require more than what I can offer it now.

The effort of driving causes my eyes to feel heavy at times, as it does most mornings, but I still somehow make it to work. Another dulling day as the fatigue in my body intensifies. My mind grows irritable for every small detail. Today is even more gruesome as the saws are scheduled to run this morning. Cory and I have to check everything on these machines and get it all dialed in as soon as possible. And a special guest is at the plant, the vice president of R&D. In the company, he is a step above the plant manager in authority and seniority, only a few spots removed from the CEO. I’ve never met him nor the CEO, but from what the plant knows, they are scoping out this machine to try and order more for the plant…just what I need more machines to try and take care of.

There isn’t much time to set up the machines to run. Even after the last few days of checking the equipment, it’s still an extensive process to get it set up properly. All the old blades need to be taken out and replaced with new ones. Since each tool is slightly different, each one has to be moved to the proper position one at a time. This typically can’t be done sooner as the production schedule changes on the daily and we won’t know the exact product we need to make until the day of. It takes a lot of skill and a bit of luck to be able to set up these saws quickly. I got good at them by doing it alone for months on end. I had to, or else this place would have gotten rid of me a long time ago. Then, the rest of the production line needs to be set up to handle the product a bit more diligently. It’s a high-quality product that is easy to mishandle, and prone to breaking from the rugged machinery, so a lot of tinkering is required to make sure the product gets off the line ok. We have maybe a few hours to get this whole line set up before the R&D director walks through.

I compartmentalize every little feeling or thought so that I can focus on getting this job done quickly, or else I know I will hear it from all the managers the coming week. And suddenly, the heat from the still air loses its potency and doesn’t bother me anymore. The sweat from my body goes unnoticed. The aches in my muscles subside, or rather they are ignored. The need to drink or eat is even curtailed. The headache that I’ve carried since Monday even seems to have temporarily relieved its pressure, as I pull myself in a pocket of my mind that is segregated from reality. I have reached a state of emptiness, of presence, with only just enough focus for the next task at hand that I receive. There are no thoughts of the past or future. It feels like a perverted form of enlightenment, one only stumbled upon by accident. I can acknowledge that there is a beauty to this state of mind, but also acknowledge that this is not true enlightenment. I am not voluntarily present and actively clearing my mind of pestering thoughts. In fact, I do the exact opposite. I am present by obligation to the life I have received, and subconsciously moving all of my thoughts away to allow this feeble state of being the ability to focus its capacity on one thing; one task is all I can manage. In the heat of the moment, I don’t question how this came to be. I just graciously accept it as it is what I required to continue to press forward.

Cory and I move with a ferocious pace to get this line set up. I focus on the saws specifically as Cory works on changing over the rest of the line. Sweat is dripping from my hard hat, and he’s running around the rest of the line fixing all the minor issues. It took us hours to get that line set up, as it usually does, and as the first few good boards make it down the line, the vice president walks in. Cory and I look at each other and breathe a little sigh of relief before the director approaches us. He is a short and very slim figure. He wears square-framed glasses, and a nice collared shirt with a simple plaid design. His pants look like they’re made from silk, and his boots look like he just bought them yesterday. He holds his head high and has a jittery walk to him, as if ready to see what he needs to and get out of the dirty production environment. I whisper a remark to Cory as the director is slowly closing distance.

“Cory, this guy doesn’t look like he belongs here, does he?”

“Nope, not at all. That’s how all the higher-ups are. I’ve only met a few but I can tell that this guy’s important. Be careful with what you say.”

“Copy that.”

“Good morning gentlemen. How are you today?”

I respond first, “We’re doing good, sir. How are you?”

I go to extend my hand to greet him. He looks down and refuses, keeping his hands behind his back and moving on to the next thing on his agenda.

“How are these machines running today?”

Cory sees me a bit demoralized so he is able to step in and say, “They’re all set up and waiting for you to see them have a go.”

“Let’s see how they do today.”

He begins to ask us both a barrage of technical questions about the saws. His accent makes it hard for us to understand what he is saying, and every time he repeats himself, he gets visibly more frustrated, as his wrinkles on his forehead flare up and his hands start to jitter. Cory keeps an eye on the line to make sure no problems are arising with the crews as I have to try and entertain our guest. It feels like we are treading on thin ice with every question he asks and my mind is starting to shut down. Luckily, we make it out unscathed as he is pressed for time for a meeting.

“All right gentlemen thank you for showing me around, and good luck on the rest of your shift. I’ll be in contact with you guys should I have any more questions.”

“Thank you, sir. We look forward to having you back soon.”

“That was intense right, Cory?”

“Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. He beat you up without even throwing a punch.”

“Yeah.”

As the workload decreases, I find myself feeling everything that was blocked out earlier, but this time with more sharpness. The headache slowly creeps back, but with more intention and a greater pressure. My eyes seem to be teary, not because of some emotion, but rather because of the lack of water. The sweat around my body somehow makes me feel heavier, feeling as though that the lack of fluid throughout the day is locking up my joints. The bottoms of my feet feel like I have just finished a marathon. Before I head home, I enter the bathroom to try and clean myself off, for the dust on my face and hands is starting to irritate my skin. I look in the mirror and barely recognize this man. It looks like a version of me that has aged twenty years. There are bags under my eyes. The lack of food and hydration makes my face more sunken and has a quality of malnourishment (probably because I am). My arms look feeble as well, as if the work drained my body of sustenance from any spot it could find. The only good thing I can think of is, At least I earned my dinner. As if it was a reward for making it through the day and not a human need to eat. The remainder of my thoughts are filled with just being home and sleeping. I have exerted all of my will to do anything else.

Who are you? That similar voice in my heart emerges. I don’t care to hear it now. It seems like that voice is loudest when I’m at my weakest. And each day that passes, its voice becomes louder.

So I wash my face and try to rinse off this overwhelming sense of self-pity. I hope that by cleaning off the sweat that it will take this feeling with it. And for a moment, the instant that cold water hits my face, it does. The refreshing sensation pulls me back to the present moment. I grasp for any little pocket of joy now, as they are rare nowadays. Even the ideas of joy, contentment, and happiness feel so unnatural, so foreign. I have lived a life away from those feelings, almost intentionally, and I have forgotten how they feel. So when the chance is presented to rejoice in them, I still feel a bit of uneasiness, feeling like an unwanted guest, trying not to overstay my already shallow welcome.

The drive brings with it a sensation of melancholy. It has a soothing feeling for me, I notice. It reduces the pain of my headaches and helps me cope with my body’s aches. There is no malice in this feeling, only a deep connection to the void in my soul, to the depression in my veins. I initially wonder why I feel this now, but I have suppressed enough for so long that it is merely the steam exiting the teapot when its water has reached boiling. I have grown more sensitive to the inconsistencies of the days. I have grown more impatient with everybody I interact with on a daily basis, which admittedly is a small faction. I notice myself drifting away from those closest to me. It makes me wonder about my family. I haven’t talked to most of them in months. I think about my mom and my dad and my two siblings, an older sister and a younger brother. All three of us left Mom and Dad around the same time. It seems like ever since then, all of us have lived in separate worlds. I have time to call them, Mom and Dad. I should at least try.

Dad is usually at work so I figured I’d call my mom first. He actually enjoys his job. He’s a machinist and makes expensive parts for the aerospace industry. He’s always been one to enjoy his work and seems so invested in it. Mom would always tell my siblings and me growing up that, “Your dad wouldn’t even know I was dead ‘til he got back from work. He’ll make sure that the funeral is on his lunch break.” We all chuckled at it, and Dad would respond, “That’s right.” He is a stoic man and is always so calm no matter what situation. He’s always held my admiration, and so has my mother.

My mom works in quality control for another manufacturing company around the area. Industry jobs seem to run in the family. She is such a detail-oriented person that it suits her personality well. Mom isn’t one to enjoy her work too much. She can tolerate it, but that’s about it. What she loves are her projects: home improvement, fundraisers, church events, and business ideas. She wants to eventually create her own business, a restaurant. I would back it. She’s an amazing cook. She’s always been a person to enjoy a challenge and is excited to learn something new, even if she fails in a certain endeavor, she can always smile at the end of the day. They’re both great parents, and I almost feel ashamed to be their son. I feel like there is much more to prove in their eyes.

The phone rings as I wait to hear my mom answer. Each ring of the phone makes me a bit more nervous, as if I’m ready to meet my childhood hero. A few more moments pass, and I hear the voicemail prompt. I felt a bit disappointed. I don’t know what I wanted to talk to her about, but I was just hoping to hear her voice. I haven’t talked to her in a while. I miss her. I miss Mom.

“Hey, Mom. Just wanted to call to see how you’re doing. I’m sorry I haven’t called in a while, but I’m doing all right. I know I probably missed a few of your calls, so I figured I’d try to call you back. Anyways, don’t worry about calling back. I’ll try to call you again tomorrow. All right, love you. Bye.”

I hang up and head inside. The uneasiness in my soul allows me to move, not with excitement but with anxiety. When I get inside, I do all of my chores. I try to race against the clock in order to try and get the most rest possible tonight. Finally, when I finish, I am able to lie down and relieve myself of the body pains and the headaches, as the bed caresses me. My body has lost all tension as it slowly settles into a resting position. Before I try to close my eyes for the night, I stare at what’s in front of me, the ceiling.

A blank wall, with a knockdown texture common in every house. There is a plain white coat of paint that has a matte finish, which further reinforces the blandness of the environment I am surrounded in. My eyes jump around between various spots of textures on the ceiling, as if trying to examine each one. My mind finds itself at ease from doing this, and I tell myself, ”This. This is the highlight of my week.“ I broke myself down enough to have this as my prevailing thought. The ceiling, so bland, with such uniformity, just like me. A piece of somebody else’s puzzle. How did I fall so much? How did I lose such a vibrant spirit? That spirit that was filled with such originality, such uniqueness, such variety. Maybe this is just facing the reality that none of these things were ever really present, that they were just a lie I told myself. Maybe all of this work, all of this physical exertion, has opened my eyes to what the facts are. I need to know that what I’ve told myself as I have grown up is true. I need to know that who I have been presenting to this world is equivalent to the person I truly am.

With little thought, I know this is not the case. It’s like I can see myself being ripped apart in a thousand directions, like every part of my being has a different objective. I’ve been very passive in my life, in my own growth. I did not trailblaze any path. Rather I have taken the easy one, one that has allowed me to feel safe. I chose a job out of the convenience of not looking for another. I bought my house brand new for lack of willingness to fix up another. Now that this awareness is presented, I keep wanting to dig out these old skeletons in the closet. Each one seems heavier than the last, and it physically hurts. A headache forms in my head again and decide to stop for the night. My soul wants to continue, to reveal how deep this divide is between who I am and who the world thinks I am. But I must postpone this for just a few more days, so I can get to the weekend. I promise myself that I will do this, but I need to rest. My body wins the battle as my eyes shut and my arms wrap my blanket around me.

I wake up to another day of blandness. I evaluate the quality of sleep I had last night and see if my body has rested and if it feels recovered. Both seem false. My joints are sore and muscles are stiff, just as usual. It’s a surprise to feel refreshed from any rest. It seems that the debt of fatigue is too grand to repay, at least with sleep being the only form of currency to try and repay with. I check my phone to see if my mom called me back. She didn’t. I know I told her I didn’t want her to call, but I did. I don’t know why I said otherwise. I fell back into not dressing myself nice for work, not to style my hair, or act like I’m trying to present myself better. It was short-lived, for I realize that at work nobody ever notices or cares. I spend so much time there that at first it merited the effort to present myself better. But with the actual work I do, it seems pointless to put that effort for those who don’t even care to notice. The type of work would also ruin the effort. The sweat and hard hat would push out any product in my hair, and the dirt and grease would only ruin the nice clothes. So I go back to the bare minimum, an old crew T-shirt and some worn denim jeans. They are tasteless and make me feel like another dull silhouette, just like my fellow coworkers. I feel resentment, for I want to present myself in the best way I can, and still want to, but there it is not worth it.

That yearning for me to feel like myself again—or better yet, for the first time—has grown in me. That white ceiling, the one I see every night and every morning, I will no longer be a part of it. That little bit of hope I initially had is starting to show again with a bit more luminosity. Even though my physical state is subpar, my mental capacity is low, and my spirit is worn, I feed on this hope to fill those gaps. And so, the day begins anew. More monotony as I grow awareness of my dull day-to-day life. Monotony and pain, they have been my sole companions for so long. Forever I dare to say. I reflect on these words as I continue on with the day. I notice how far I have drifted into this detached state, one that has kept my subconscious on what once was, that I forgot what being in the moment feels like...“Soon,” I keep repeating, “Soon.” Soon I will be able to give these questions the time, the diligence, and the focus they deserve. For now, I have to let this desire boil, to concentrate it all, and let it smolder until I can finally let it breathe and grow into the wildfire it was meant to be.

The day continues, and the daily tasks are completed, fixing machines and moving around material up and down stairs. I was taught—or rather told—to do these things: to fix the equipment, to operate it, and to treat them as my own children, although they are never truly mine. They are owned by those above me. However, I do all of these tasks with that diligence of a father, and pride commands me to be disciplined and to do a “good job.” I move away from the desire of answering those questions as I start to feel as if these thoughts are visible to those around me. I can almost see the faces of the managers looking in my thoughts and being disgusted for thinking of something other than work. It feels like even my mind cannot be a place of refuge in this environment. I don’t want those thoughts and that hope to be tainted, so I force it back as best I can to protect it. This time, it is not a form of compartmentalization, as I acknowledge its place in my mind, but solely a form of protection to keep it pure. That dream has started to grow precious to me, more than I have realized at the moment. With every turn of the wrench, with every speck of dust on my clothes, with every ounce of grease on my hand and every drop of sweat on the floor, that dream, that desire in my soul burns brighter.

Another day finishes, and I realize I am one day away from the weekend. As I am driving home from work, my mom calls me. I feel too tired to engage in any conversation, even with my mother. It’s sad to say and even more sad to deny what I’ve wanted to hear, my mom’s voice. I hate this. I wish to just go home, not my house, but home, that small house we all grew up in that’s only an hour from the city. The drive is filled with memories I cherish. I open the truck window and can smell my old room. I recall moments with my brother as we shared a room. We both hated our sister a bit since she got her own room. It seemed liked we fought every day for something petty, but we made up at the end of the day. Why can’t life be that simple again? Why can’t I just go see Mom? I’m ashamed. I don’t want her to see her son like this, broken. I’d rather deal with this pity alone. So I just head home and try to continue the rest of the day like this thought never happened. I let the phone ring, knowing I’ll miss her, but she leaves a voicemail and I listen to it once I get home.

“Hey, mijo (my son in Spanish). I got your message yesterday. I hope you’re doing ok and not overworking yourself. You sounded a bit tired in the message. Anyways we miss you, and we’ll be up in Reno this weekend. Maybe you can invite us over for some food, or we can go out and get some dinner. Your dad and I miss you and we love you. Take care, mijo. Call me back when you can. I know you’re busy.”

I want to cry after I hear that. I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe it is pride, maybe it is the dehydration taking away my tears. My heart yells out to me, “You see now? Do you see why I took you to the beach? What are you doing all of this for? Why are you doing this to me?”

I respond, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Do what you want then. I’ll just be in the background, rotting. Just forget about me.”

Shame is a word that does not merit what I feel at the moment. Depression doesn’t even seem suitable. I just want to quit everything right now, but I’m locked in a standstill between my ego and my heart. I wish to find peace for once, but I don’t want to let go of anything to do so.

I grow more and more tired of debating myself, and I remember that I skipped working out yesterday and feel the need to do something today. Although I initially dread exercise, I find some joy in it. I use it as a testing ground, one to test my resolve, my discipline. And in moments like this, it helps me quell those various voices in my head. I have set a standard for myself, and I intend to live up to it. So I think about what I should do when I get home, Weights, running, judo… Then out of the blue a thought pops up saying, “rest.” Upon initial reaction, I am displeased by that thought and respond, “Why rest? You’ve made it this far. Your fatigue is past the point of recovery. Why not dive deeper? Are you going to disappoint your parents by giving up here, too?” But then I realize what it means. My soul wants me to replicate the desire for my dream. It wants me to hold that urge to move, to allow it to smolder. Let that urge soak in my body just a bit longer and prove to myself that patience will draw my full potential from me. I ponder this realization for a bit, and the more I do, the more I become drawn to that option. And so as I arrive home, and as much as my body urges me to move, I deny its requests. I go about the rest of the day with a calmness knowing I don’t need to expend any more energy. I even try to preserve as much energy as I can to be ready for the next morning.

That’s when I’ll let that dog out, Become unchained, savage, untethered tomorrow morning. The alarm is set for 3AM again, and I get to bed as soon as I can, for the stage of the battle has been set. I lie my head on the bed, look up at that ceiling again, but don’t pay any attention to it this time, for I want all of my resources expended tomorrow. As I am lying down, I start to find it difficult to sleep. I have grown impatient and excited, for I wish to be at the battleground already. The fatigue is overshadowed by that feeling of excitement, but I try to fight it to calm myself and go to sleep. To try and find a way to calm myself, I repeat the word, “smolder,” as my mind settles more and more after every iteration. My eyes close, and my body rests.

The alarm rings at 3AM, and my eyes open instantly. I hop out of bed as my muscles have been waiting diligently like loyal soldiers to be put to work. I get my daily morning rituals done as soon as possible. This feels like the only thing that has grown excitement in me all week for I have built the anticipation for this. I have tempered the excitement, and now it is time to reap those rewards. I get dressed, I wear my typical grey sweatpants, a bit baggy because I have this thought of not wanting to show-off (even though there are few people awake let alone at the gym at this time). I put on a navy blue long-sleeve crew shirt. It has some miles on it. The color seems faded, and the cotton has lost some of its soft touch and grown to be a bit rough. The armpit stitching is starting to unravel and a hole has begun to form. Still, I wear it, partly out of nostalgia, but also to protect those tattoos on my left arm. I spent much time, money, and pain to gain these permanent forms of art, so as an act of respect to them I wear this shirt. I cover them to care for them and also to not present them to those unaware or unworthy of the meaning behind each one of them. Finally, I get my shoes on, a pair of Converse (Chuck Taylor). They are a newer pair with a lot of traction left on the rubber sole. The shoe itself does not have any excess in materials, with just enough thickness on the flat sole to protect the bottom of the foot from the ground. But I can feel every time that shoe flexes, acting as an extension to my own foot. They are perfect for the task ahead. I want to feel connected to the ground. I want to feel the balance shift across the plane of my feet as I hold the weight in my hands from lifting up from the ground.

The deadlift, such a simple movement, but filled with ferocity. Why? All that needs to be done is pick up weights off the floor and put them back down. That’s the extent of this movement. That bar has been there for me more than any person. No other being has the authority to say that. It’s a worthy adversary worth every ounce of effort, and it has shown me a glimpse of the true depths of discipline, motivation, and tenacity. It takes the grunt of the punishment that I deal it, and with no quarrels. It invites it even, asking for any worthy challenger. I’ve built up the motor pattern of that movement to feel natural now-and have done so after years of this repeated motion. There is no wasted thought in how I approach the bar, how I set my feet, or how I grip it. I have transcended all of that, after years of diligent practice, and can now place that mental focus on pursuing the depths of that tenacity, that resolve. Next thing I know, the bar is right in front of me. I don’t question how I got here, merely embrace it. To test this resolve, to feel like my muscles have been appropriately stimulated, I need enough weight on the bar. So I add a pair of forty-five-pound plates, one on each side. With each repetition, I pull the bar to my shins. The bar’s knurling digs into my hands deeper. I lift it off the floor as the bar rubs on the bones of my shins, and I fully extend my legs and torso, until I stand upright, and then I drop it controlling it all the way down. Each repetition of this gets me more and more focused. More weights get put on the bar, again in increments of ninety pounds. (Forty-five pounds per side). The heavier weights start to excite my body. My muscles feel selfish as they want more effort. Three hundred pounds, not enough. Three hundred and fifty, not enough. Four hundred pounds more. Four hundred and fifty pounds good, something worth all the exertion of my body. I know this too as my mind grows a bit of anxiety. Before I set myself up ready to lift, I sit down. I collect my thoughts as they help confine my anxiety. I tell myself, “Hold no reserves. Set all of your inhibitions free. Let your limits be considered as suggestions. Let that dog out, and unchain him from the tether of these prohibitions.”

Suddenly, all of my anxiety has vanished and been replaced with a silent fury. I get set, almost impatiently, but I hold on to this fury until I am fully set, and then finally I lift. That first rep makes my muscles work. The second rep shines light of that insatiable hunger. The third rep pushes my resolve for this weight fights back and wants to pull me down more and more. The fourth rep brings out that dog. The fifth rep and sixth reps seem like blurs. I don’t remember how they felt. The only thing I feel now is that wildfire born of that fury, of that ferocity. It’s the manifestation of all the haste and hatred I have ever had for myself, all honed for a single objective, to lift, to work, to bleed. I only let go to allow myself to go again. Such energy, such vitality I feel. Upon that moment, I say, “Whatever else this day has ahead of me doesn’t matter. I made myself feel alive, and nothing will take that from me.” I’ve given everything I had to this, and whatever recoil, whatever the consequence I am dealt, I deem is worth it for those few moments of living. For the rest of the training session, this feeling of life fills me. I wish to feel this at all times, but I know of the recoil. I have expended all of my resources, all of my mental focus, all of my physical strength, and I know once that adrenaline drops all that will be left will be anxiety and depression. That price for this feeling of vitality is the overwhelming sensation of numbness, to make sure the scales are even, but I don’t care. As the training session draws to a close, I have this feeling hovering over me of wanting to fuel this desire to answer the questions, Who are you? Who do you need to be to get to that lighthouse? But I can’t. I’m stuck with only questions and no answers and no time to ponder over them. I wish I had the time to sit down and just think about this but have to get back to work.