I drop the dumbbells, sit up from the bench, and look in the mirror. I see a powerfully built young man, perhaps not with the aesthetic perfection of the David, but strong with broad shoulders and thick arms. As I stand I critique my physique and overall I'm pleased with my progress. Chiseled triceps, traps like steel bridge cables, abs that could use a few thousand more crunches, brawny quads, calves like Greek marble in high relief.
Is this narcissism? No, I don't have an inflated sense of self-importance. I'm aware of my diminutive role in the great wheel of existence and that when I die I I'll be eaten by worms and utterly forgotten within a couple generations. If I'm lucky.
No, not narcissism. But it is vanity. Earned vanity. Pride. Five years ago, the being staring back at me from the mirror did not exist. No one gave him the strength, stamina, or physique he now possesses. It was earned, rep by rep, set by set, hour by hour. Month by month. With sweat, pain, and blood. Aching joints, bones, muscles, all overcome, and still more yet to be overcome. Because the man staring back from the mirror can always get stronger and leaner. He can always extend his physical power by pushing his body through struggle and pain.
There's an entire generation of boys alive today that will die without ever knowing how strong they could have been. In itself, this fact is sad, but combined with the fact that strength and masculinity are ridiculed by the bulk of these boys, it will prove devastating to our civilization. When I look in the mirror now, I am proud of what I see. A protector, a provider, a warrior. These are not simple words, but concepts that can only be understood when lived, when the hard reality of experience shapes a male into a man. I feel a deep, sincere sorrow for the current generation of boys because so many of them will never actually live as men. They will never feel the pride that true men feel for being true men. Indeed, these boys are being taught that the very concept of the true man is ironic and has rotted past its due date.
Admittedly, I almost fell into that trap. I was in the infantry and lost some very dear friends in Iraq and Afghanistan. By the end of my second tour (towards the end of the Bush presidency), my disillusionment with our military mission abroad and the general current of political life at home were sucking me leftward.
After I ETSed, I got an apartment with a buddy from my platoon and we began drifting into dildo territory. We watched Bill Maher comedy specials, discussed Michael Moore documentaries, and read books and articles by Noam Chomsky that our art school neighbors lent us. At night we'd listen to bands like System of a Down and Rage Against the Machine while getting drunk. You get the idea. At one point I even got a job at a major bookstore chain because I wanted to meet “interesting” people (read: limpdicks and dykes). I remember one shift when I was seriously discussing the possibility of forever eliminating the male
from our species with some clueless, save-the-whales-and-stop-all-war-and-abolish-money type cunt.
I was starting to lose touch with reality, and it only got worse when I started using my GI bill to pursue a degree in economics. Though I never entirely abandoned the libertarian ideals I had been raised with, I did start to accept the general narrative that the Cathedral/Synagogue constantly pushes. European civilization is fundamentally flawed, whiteness is oppression, masculinity is toxic, we are all one, etc etc. As my mind softened, so did my body. The fit soldier slowly devolved into the sloppy, overweight neckbeard. Looking back on it, my non-STEM classes were like one big, carefully orchestrated lullaby designed to induce a dream-like state where reality isn't reality anymore and anything is possible so long as some cuck with a PhD says it is.
I can't blame myself for wanting to give in to the Narrative. I saw my first combat when I was 19, and I spent half of my early 20s in Islamic shitholes where death was conceivably around every corner. Fear, guilt, anger, loss – these things can take their toll and I suppose I was looking for a scapegoat to lay my burden on. I chose to lay that burden on Bush and the neocons and the pull towards the dildo left from that moment was as inescapable as gravity, because even though I had learned to kill and suffer hardship, I still had not learned how to be a man. Even after all I had been through, I was in my heart still a boy, and boys are keen to listen to lies that would relieve them of responsibility.
Thankfully, I was awakened from dreams by a devastation from which, at the time, I thought I would never recover. Heartbreak. I had been dating a girl from college for a couple years and thought she was the one. She had other plans. You know the story and its details are boring and unimportant. What is germane to our purposes here is that I slid into a deep depression like the utter pussy I was at the time. “Woe is me” pretty well defined about a pathetic year of my existence.
Eventually my self-pity manifested into a general hatred of women, and somewhere along the line I started lifting weights. I couldn't really tell you why, it was just something I did to blow off steam. I didn't know what I was doing at first and just mimicked what I saw other dudes doing. My dildofied years had made me twenty or thirty pounds overweight. My cheeks were chubby and I had the beginnings of a double chin. My muscles had atrophied from lack of use since I had internalized the decadent idea, so prevalent among left intellectuals, that physical prowess is somehow base and primitive.
Because I was weaker than most of the goys in the gym, I kept to myself and worked out when the crowd was light. It was hard at first. I felt out of place, unwanted, like an outsider. Pushing through the soreness and fear of embarrassment, I pressed on.
Occasionally I'd see a big dude working out with his fit girlfriend and I'd feel a pang of jealousy and shame, but as I look back on it both of those were perfectly healthy emotions, particularly the shame. It was right and proper that the weak feel shame if their weakness is of their own making. But instead of retreating from that shame and wallowing in self-pity, I kept going to the gym and kept working out.
After several months I started to see results and my confidence grew. My muscles expanded and unsightly flab was melting off my body. Reps and weight increased. I felt stronger and got a bit of a swagger. I began to internalize the logic of the gym, which in reality has been the basic logic of human existence since man crawled out of the slime: You get out what you put in. Fully understanding this logic requires iron discipline, because in the end there is absolutely no room for excuses. You set realistic goals and you achieve them no matter what obstacles are put before you. You don't complain, you overcome. A strong man in the gym
is someone who has submitted his intellect to his will, who has allowed his will to power to manifest itself physically, in his flesh.
Women, beautiful creatures that they are, have an innate understanding of power, and they unconsciously seek it. During my woman-hating period I didn't understand this. The Cathedral had me believing that kindness, sincerity, faithfulness, and deference to the wisdom of the feminine (the virtues of the cuck) are enough to win the heart and allegiance of woman. Nothing is farther from the truth. After my will had transformed my body into something powerful and pleasing to the eye, women began showing me attention in near-absurd amounts. At the risk of gloating, women were all but falling over themselves to meet me. If I wanted a partner for an evening (or longer, the choice was invariably mine), I only needed to put on a nice, tight fitting polo, hit a bar, and strike up a conversation with an attractive woman. Chances were, she'd invite me back to her place. They weren't doing that before I started hounding the gym. What changed?
I realized that women weren't vile creatures who didn't appreciate a “nice guy”. Women merely defer to their will as is natural and good. It was my mind that had been poisoned, my expectations warped by the twisted liberal ideology of our time. Women want a practical leader and a protector, not a sweet, deferential puppy. Men who strength train know this innately – it's probably why they're in the gym in the first place.
As I made friends in the gym I came to understand that the serious strength trainer is the absolute antithesis of the liberal/progressive. Self-propelled, serious, unforgiving, unapologetic. They understand the ironical humor of Jon Stewart, most just don't find it that funny. It's... weak. Irony is the language of the slave, not the self-overcoming conqueror. When you escape the left's culture of irony and enter into a culture of strength, you begin to see the left for the repugnant, destructive force that it is. The ironical milieu in which most white Americans have grown up in hollows them out from the inside, weakening their instinct for excellence, convincing them that a desire for equality in all things is sophistication.
The truth is that equality is only desired by the cowed servant. Only someone who is tortured by life, most often a torture brought on by lack of purpose, would consider equality to be acceptable. Desire for equality is the moral echo of weakness, and the intellectual echo of a misunderstanding of history. All life is struggle for mastery, and that struggle yields higher and higher forms of beauty and excellence. This is truth we all innately understand, and it is reinforced as parable in every bench press or low row.
The gym saved me from the Narrative, the greatest lie ever told. Strength training isn't merely about building your body. It's about accepting life honestly on the terms it has provided you. It's giving thanks to your ancestors, who struggled against nature, man, and dindu to see to it that you are here today. It's a small but important part of becoming the man that you are meant to be, not only physically, but in every other way as well.
So get a gym membership and start smashing some iron. Trust me, shitlords; you won't regret it, and you'll be making the world a better, less douchey place.