I Don’t Dream, I Only Sweat

Aramie Ewen04/08/2021March 2021

#From the field

I started weightlifting all the way back in 1687, when Issac Newton first told us about force. I picked up a handful of books and started pushing and pulling them up and down. I haven’t stopped this hobby since. I put my heart and soul into these weights, but I never imagined I’d still be lifting in 2021. 

I can only wonder why I’m still here. For the bookstore? They don’t pay me. So, do I do this simply for the joy of the hobby? That doesn’t pay either. 

I’m confused, but I can’t stop. Whenever I try to, my hands become books. I’m forced to keep lifting until my human hands regrow. But then I have books near me. I think, “may as well lift these books.” The cycle goes on. 

Perhaps this has continued for too long. Still, when the weights pull me down, I can pull them back up. When my “friends” pull me down, I’m just sad. Yes, I’m talking about you, S. Alfreud. You’d always psychoanalyze me. I remember how you’d tell me about my dreams, way back in 1899. Bub, your dream analysis still disturbs me. 

Luckily, dreams (and Alfreud, they died a while ago) aren’t a problem for me anymore. Now I don’t dream. I only sweat. Try to interpret me now, punk. Try to make books out of these lifting hands! Now my hands make books and my brain makes sweat. 

These books have words, too. I don’t usually try to read them, though. The last time I tried it only said, “who are you and why are you touching my a**?” I apologized to the book and continued with my lifting.

My hands become too heavy with books for words now. Just remember: check in with your local bookstore. Who knows, maybe there’s a weightlifter in the back in need of some company and dream psychoanalysis. Miss you, Alfreud.

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