Exercise Your Immortal Mind

In a rental flat within a towering block there lived an author… and this particular author is fed up with the whole situation! I long to return to my gloomy manor, but I need to accumulate more savings to cover its electricity bills. The noises coming from the neighbouring apartments make it nearly impossible to concentrate on my writing, so I have packed my writing scrolls and quill and ventured out in search of a peaceful study.

My irritating upstairs neighbour is a gym rat. When he was doing his interval training in our apartment building’s stairwell, I snatched the key to the gym he frequents. I’m heading there now. It’s midnight, so I presume I can work there in peace; even rodents need to rest sometimes... And here I am, opening the gym's door and voilà! Let the literal grinding begin! 

The gym! A windowless torture chamber deep underground, where lost souls willingly torment themselves, with frightful instruments of agony. The very air is saturated with the stench of desperation. Within these walls, the pain is constant and knows no end. It quite reminds me of a Thanksgiving dinner at Dracula's castle. I should pay him a visit.

I am composing the sequel to my previous best seller, Love in the Time of the Great Wrath – published in someone else’s name in a true ghostwriting style – but this time the book shall bear my initials on the cover, or no deal with the publisher. It will be titled Love in the Time of the Great Wrath 2: Gone with the Plague. Quite a snappy title, if I say so myself, and the entire work is composed in verse. The book is bound to sell like hotcakes!

I shall sit down on this exercise bike to write. Hmm, I can cycle simultaneously, rather efficient; one gets exercise and work done at the same time. Not that I need the workout, mind you, for I am in the prime condition of my lifelessness! Okay, so now I’ll continue with my poem, where was I… Ah, yes, Captain Grigori sees the heroine, Josefine, for the very first time and is inspired, of course. Ahem.

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Josefine, the wealthy heiress of the manor, is the sun! O rise, fair sun...

Hmm, what? The hem of my robe got tangled in the exercise bike's pedal. I have to pull the garment free, nnnggghhh! Got it! It is loose, but the hem is badly soiled. The cloak is almost like the Phantom Blot's fashion monstrosity! Enough exercise on this contraption. Stationary cycling is not worth the stain on my reputation. 

I shall try this rowing machine next. Swish, and swish, and swish, it swishes mightily! My poetic vein begins to flow; 

O, rise, fair sun, and slay the envious moon, since thou, rich Josefine, art many times more lovely and more wealthy than she! The glow of her cheek...

Oops, now my hem caught the handle, and the rowing machine ripped my robe right off me, and here I am stark naked in the middle of the gym! Fortunately, I am alone and there is no one here filming workout videos for Instagram; I would not want to become a viral phenomenon as a nude ghoul. Not until I have lost at least 5 pounds! Robe back on, and  I shall flutter over to the treadmill next. I will place the writing scroll here on the rail, and switch the belt on, there! Very well, where was I?

The glow of her cheek, as she toils tirelessly with her pitchfork to clear the cow manure from the stalls, would dim the stars as daylight dims a lamp! O how she leans...

Now, what is it that this treadmill doesn't quite feel like anything, even though I set the speed to max? Is it somehow broken? No matter how I hover above this belt, I gain no exercise whatsoever. The treadmill is an idiotic device anyway! If one genuinely feels like running, one can run outside quite for free. The scenery changes, too.

I shall flutter next to the weights area. I shall not even attempt to lift the weights. These refined fingers were made to hold a pen, not to hoist heavy objects. There is a nice-looking bench where I can sit down and write in peace. Ah, this is quite good. So, the Captain continues his poem:

O, how she leans her cheek upon her work-glove, would I were that glove, that I might touch that cheek!

Wait, what? The door just opened. Someone just walked into the gym. It's my irritating upstairs neighbour! What on earth is he doing here in the middle of the night? And how did he even get inside, I stole his key! He must have a spare. What kind of guy has a spare key to the gym?

What on earth is he doing? Listening to music with his headphones on and jamming? Good heavens, what is this world coming to? He's approaching me, but doesn't notice me—of course not! A superficial idiot like him wouldn't notice a cultural figure even if one were to hit him over the head with a book written by said figure. Well, I'll try to ignore him and finish my poem...

The upstairs neighbour dances over to the weights area, notices the bench press is dirty, looks around for a cleaning cloth, spots the sheet on the bench and snatches it up. He cleans the exercise machine with the sheet, and then tosses the sheet into the waste bin beside the wall.

What a way to treat an artist. Straight into the trash, so that sports may flourish! Oh great, I can’t get out of this waste bin on my own. I suppose I'll just have to wait for the cleaner to let me out of here in the morning. This is going to be a long night.

Luckily, creating art isn't about the location. A study is a study; the main thing is that one feels comfortable. This waste bin seems quiet and peaceful enough. If I ignore the old banana peels, I believe I can concentrate well enough to continue with my poem. Where was I? Ah, yes:

It is my rich lady, it is my love! O, that she knew she were!