Progress in ways I had not intended
This season has been one of which my program was forcibly changed. I knew that there could be detrimental effects, and I knew I might suffer in the area I care most about, my sole focus for some months now; that is, studying. I was getting in a good 15-20 quality hours a week consistently. At my best I had days where I counted up 6 quality hours of studying, if I remember correctly, most of which included working late into the night, oftentimes getting into the zone in the shift where I had the least distractions. I killed from 10pm-2am. A month or so ago I made a choice. I entered back into something I once loved. An activity that had become a great source of stress. I was at fault for that, and so I put it away, locking the memory of that which I did for passion in a far corner of my mind. That activity was weightlifting. Now I have taken an opportunity given by an amazing man. But where this fits in my life— I have lost focus. And to continue this slack would mean ...in one word...dissappointment, of the sefish kind. To continue would mean negligence, cowardice—all that I hate about my will going frail on me. When my work capacity was climbing and plateau'n, I said to myself that to maintain was ok but to progress was ideal. I want 25-27 hours a week consistently for the next few months. I know the impact of achieving this. I know, more familiarly, the result of not making this goal. I know that fucking result like I know nausea before vomiting. Fucking sickening. But there is something learned, or re-learned in this most recent iterate of regression. That I would rather not express in words. That I'll keep at the forefront of my mind moving forward. That—
