“Shots shots shots shots shots shots shots.” Don’t worry, the only shots fired came from the rustic speakers sitting at the corner of the room. Nobody was harmed.
The tempo increases as the sweat glands steadily overworked itselves to the beat of the music. Everyone was feeling rather much alive today, it seems, maybe from having something to look forward to. They soon broke out into their own exercises just as how they try to break out from their mundane routines.
The lactic build up in the muscles must not be from overworking but from the accumulated restlessness. There isn’t much to do in the camp, you see. No outlet, no avenue, no jobs to vent out the deepening frustrations. The only channels for consultation is heavily exhausted and isn’t enough. This agitation that creeps beneath the skin synchronously erodes the masculine identities of some of them. They don’t feel like men, husbands, fathers or a leader at home no more. They need somewhere to feel like they can unmask all of their strength, tension and identities. So they come here. Once or twice per week. Not to stay fit or to grow their biceps or triceps, but to flex away all that is pent up in them.