I came to know that lifting weights would provide spurts of diversion meant to exhaust me just enough to convince me I’d made progress.
Pushing, straining, sweating–hoarding pain, anguish, means something. Or it should, shouldn’t it?
I’m paying my dues daily. My dumbells have attained my attention. I believe in them.  They want to be promoted.
To want me to be adorned prestige and lust.
Isn’t that what the muscles on my body are? Applause, at least. Nods of approval?