While in the gym, alone, with a few neon lights broken, fallen leaves everywhere on the mats (in summer?) and even some pigeon feathers, I couldn't help but notice every single wrong thing. The dust, the holds covered with grease and rubber. The same holds that have been on the walls since last october. The same holds that are marked by the same problems of last march. At some point it all seemed worthless.
This moment lasted so short.
I love this gym: it resembles alot my vision of bouldering. Stripped to its minimal terms. No room for bells and whistles here. Here, you come for training. If you search for cute girls, you're in the wrong place: the cute girls are here to get strong, mate, get a clue. If you search for bouldering partners, you're in the wrong place again: unless you want to come with me, you're bound to bolt clipping. If you search for quick ticks, ohh, how in the wrong place you are. The problem setters are three individuals (The Guru, Gianni and Damiano) that basically were born hanging small holds, and grew up locking them holds lower and lower.
I love the gym.
Despite having toil and torture in it, despite hating it. Despite being unable to climb at the other climbers' level, despite doing awful at the comps. Despite everything. Maybe it's just because it's a place for failing for me, rather than a place for succeeding. I go there for feeling weak and crap, and I do, goddammit if I do.
The gym is my place. The gym is the dirt where I deposit the seeds of my desires, of my fears, of the ever growing hunger of the demon. The gym is what will deposit me on top of my projects: every gram of chalk, every drop of sweat will deposit me on top of my projects for a single instant of satisfaction. Then I will think about going to a further hold, to a worse pinch, from a smaller crimp, from a slopier bulge. And I will start again. I will plant another seed. I will give birth to another demon. I will raise another snake.
I am flesh. I am heart. I am steel.