5am

F.S.F
Nov 10, 2024By F.S.F

300,000 km an hour,a rock with an inferiority complex,
hurtling to nowhere in particular,
dragging us all along
like unwitting passengers on a cosmic bus
with no brakes and a dubious driver.


At 5 am. I stand here,
an existential monument of half-sleep,
lifting a kettlebell as if doing so
might convince the universe to stop,
apologize, and offer me breakfast.


Up, down—again,
as the mat below sucks in my sweat,
sending dark circles to bloom and vanish
like confused mayflies
that can’t decide if life’s worth it.


My body protests:
a creak here, a click there,
a symphony of joints
staging their quiet rebellion,
each micro-failure like
a tiny, well-mannered anarchist
reminding me I’m not quite
Alice in Wonderland,
who, as we know, did six impossible things
before breakfast and still had time
to argue with a rabbit.


A sharp breath slices the silence;
an inhale drags it back.
This ritual, this absurd routine,
as if each movement keeps the cosmos
from folding in on itself
like a bad tent. Spoiler:
the stars don’t care.


A groan escapes,
half dismay, half disbelief,
the sound you make when you realize
the universe is probably in the kitchen
rifling through your last jar of olives
and muttering about late rent.


The set ends.
The kettlebell lowers,
gravity wins another round.
I look at the mat, at the sweating rings
that disappear faster
than a good idea.
I wonder if somewhere,
far, far away,
the universe pauses too,
smirks, and whispers—
next. Because
what else is there?