Stair Master

From earlier:

My head aches today. I wonder from where it crawled, out from under which rock the pain creeped. Despite my aching cranium, I make my way out into the fog, to go to the gym. Today will be the fourth consecutive day. It is an enormous struggle just to get back to where I was a month ago. Much of life's energy, it seems, is spent trying to get back; to, or at, someone, someplace, something. Looking toward the future is polarizing, often inspiring only two feelings: fear and fantasy; sometimes both. The past, however, is not similarly restricted - we wear it like a ball and chain. It can be regrettable, tender, fond, wistful, tragic, but always haunting. We stare back at it like a setting sun, with a post-prescient omniscience, knowing exactly what we should've done, then (had we known what we know now). It is a sickness, a kind of temporal voyeurism.

Speaking of sickness, I feel the vague onset of nausea. The thought of spraying vomit out over the gymnasium from atop the stair-master amuses me. Marching like gestapo toward the heavens, ever ascending, demonstrating my elevation over those piteous bastards beneath me, only to unleash a deluge of puke upon them, with impunity, from my mouth spigot. Vomiting on someone is so much better than spitting on them. It comes from somewhere deeper than saliva - from the soul. Most people can't stomach it though, that much raw essence.

Working out when you have a headache is like taking a shower when you have a sunburn. It's something you know you need to do, something that will probably help, but the pain and inconvenience of it all calls the whole thing into question.