Heavy metal pressing down, your neck in its path to the ground.
Contracting muscles, screaming joints squeeze out the chemicals your brain knows as "fear".
It's the folly of humanity, the preference for harm over boredom.
It's the schizoid relationship with the self; the awe at the infinite potential shown on the magazines, and the despair over the work required, work that can only end ever end underground unless you love (or hate) your body enough to try and make it perfect.
It's cool. It's a craft. It should be catered to your tastes.
It's endless lies, peddled and inherited, the biggest two being that the numbers matter and that the numbers don't matter.
It's the love for the moment; the sweaty mechanics of forever existing in a present ready to abandon you. That's where the power of the exercise comes in. When you lift, you defy space but also time. Taking the bar means taking the present and refusing to let go, stretching the instants as far as your condition can because on some deep, reptilian level you know you don't have an infinite supply of them.