“Imagine that an alien from another planet dropped in and found a weightlifter pressing an iron bar over and over again. ‘Here,” the alien might say, “you don’t have to keep heaving that thing. Let’s build a small platform so that that thing stays up in the air, where you are obviously trying to put it. Then, instead of pointlessly lifting it up over and over, you can go have lunch. Don’t worry, I’ll keep that weight up there for you.” Of course this would be ridiculous. In the gym, and also in life, the point of endeavor is not sustaining the apex of achievement, the point is falling from that apex, and finding our way back over and over. We are here to learn something, and that something is trust. “When you trust yourself,” says Goethe, “you will know how to live.'”
Trusting yourself is the point. Trusting, perhaps, yourselves.
I don’t know about you, but I have a chorus of voices in my mind: they can rattle on discordant, or sing in lovely harmony. Look: Dryclean the dresses, keep tidy. Time is a leak in the productivity of a day. Independence is having hammers and keeping men an hour away. Poems are featherweight people, they’ll keep you warm if you have enough. We’ll never repeat the mistakes of our parents, but we may take their mysteries.
But then there’s this: You are sparks of an imagination you can’t fathom. You are both past and future. You are the drop net. You are the flame.