The poetry of ugly things.

Since January, I've gotten up at 5am to workout six days a week, for at least an hour at a time. I've pushed up, pulled down, squatted, lunged, jumped, hopped, leaped, kicked, blocked, punched, and vinyasa-ed to the point of nearly vomiting. As a result, I have seen noticeable improvements in my flexibility, balance, energy and strength.
And still, I look in the mirror, contemplate the approach of bathing suit season, and watch my self-esteem crumple before me. The berating begins. My least favorite of voices cry worthless! cry weak! cry repulsive, cry vile!

What language these warriors employ. Warriors without bodies themselves, who are they to judge?

For as long as I've been not-a-child, I've waged war upon my body. Because I'm a fat kid at heart. My passions are numberless and overpowering, and there are not enough outlets to vent the pressure they apply to my spirit. I refrain from chemicals, even nicotine and alcohol. Caffeine is one exception, and tragically limited in its power to placate the almighty appetite. I find refuge in food, and I eat like it's the only way to escape the claustrophobic corners of self-loathing, anxiety, and defeat. Like every bite is a twig in the dam, which I vainly hope will curb the flood of emotional intensity and spiritual struggle.

Everything I feel is heightened by my artistic vision, which others mistakenly call my melodramatic nature.

So forgive me if this is insane to you. I readily acknowledge it is so. But these words are the iron bars of a prison, to which I will now sentence my contempt and vanity and jealousy. And I'm asking you to take the key, because I'm easily persuaded by the voices of my delusions. I'd really like to leave them behind now.

I want to wrap myself in seaweed, all perfectly contained, and paint it beautiful bronze.