The Gauntlets of The Grind - Honor the Armor (Part 3)

 

Its time we get a grip on life, and snatch it back from the pressure of the Hustle and Grind.

 Notes from the Field: Once again, I'd like to thank you all who are reading and following my journey towards inner freedom and peace. If this is your first time here, welcome and please go back to read the first two installments in the HONOR THE ARMOR series. If you are returning, I appreciate you being one of the few that gave this (and me) a chance with your valued time. 

As the 2026 Labor Day Weekend settles on us, may we take the time to remember what we DO with ourselves, our talents and abilities, and the people within our families and communities. Ask yourself if your actions taken are for the greatest good, or out of fear or programming from generations and societies past? 

 

He sat as the acid like fog of his mind dissipated, finally free from the storm that loomed inside.

Yet there was another, greater storm outside that raged from afar. Its approach subtle yet bold with thick ominous clouds. The thunder roared and boomed. The ground trembled as if in fear, yet remained steadfast, like the rest of his armor as it braced for what came next.

The pieces that remained quivered like the rapid fire of a crossbow, each thumped with the tinge of the pain of internal battles fought and bled.

'You have broken free from your helm Warrior, and yet your body still wonders...what must you do?'

The voice was right as it thundered like the lightning as the shadows of the storm continued to advance.  The wind infiltrated the gaps in his armor and caressed his skin forcefully like his wife on their wedded day. A day long before the armor would become the closest thing to him. 

 

He would need to take shelter. 

Or maybe build a fortress.

Or dig a hole deep into the ground.

Or find a cave.

What about food? How long would the storm loom?

Would it last as long as....

He paused for a moment. 

'My thoughts. Why are they not clear? The Helm upon my brow is vanished...and yet...' 

He wiped the warm sweat from his brow with his left hand, both hands stung and suddenly yanked him down to his knees. His teeth gritted tight as the enamel cracked under the pressure of his clinched jaw.

'Acccckkkk...what...what is...this....my ....hands....they...' he uttered. His legs burned in resistance to stand.

'Burn?' asked the voice ripe with laceration. 'Indeed Warrior. They burn as they always have....the burn to do. The drive to act. Swift action. The need to prepare. To build. This is the mark of the Gauntlets of the Grind.'

The Warrior dug deep within to start to pull his hands from the ground with all his might to yank them free from invisible chains. He glanced at the palms of his gilded hands, mesmerized while he pondered what was meant by the voice of death within.

The burn to DO.

 

The drive to ACT.

 

Swift ACTION.

 

Prepare.

 

Build. 

He flexed his fingers feeling the scorched steel within. The warrior grimaced. He couldn't even remember the last time he even saw his own hands. His frown cut through his brow like a cleaver as a sigh escaped his parched breath.  

 

But he did remember he was always taking action, whether prepared or not.

Combined with the full armor, he was always on the go. There was always something he needed to do with his armored hands. 

 

He had to plan, always move, always stay one step ahead like a fortune teller through ACTION. There was no rest until what was done was to the standard.

To his parents Standards.

To the Neighborhood Standards.

To the teachers Standards. The Priests and Pastors.

The Friends and Lovers past and present. 

His Wife and Children once lost to the path of his life, and hers.

Their standards were HIS Standards.

Anything less required more. He would have been nothing less than prepared. 

 

Efficient. 

 

Worthy.

 

Perfect.

That was the way. But...at what cost? His own awareness. His own contentment. 

 

Because who was he without efficiency and usefulness?

Nobody. At least that is what he believed from all the lectures...the texts...the observations from childhood to manhood. 

Life without the shackles of the armor on his hands meant he brought nothing into the world. That his value was anything but valuable. 

He was bred to GRIND. To Work Hard. To Study and Master. To Conquer. To forge Legacy for his offspring to repeat and build upon. 

Those that did their 'part' were remembered. Appreciated. Honored. 

He simply wanted to do the right thing, and so he did everything that was required of him, but they were never truly of him. 

He neglected himself...his thoughts and feelings for the greater good of others...the reason he wore SURVIVAL for so long.

Fighting against an invisible enemy that only he saw in the mirror. 

He loathed, pitied, and was afraid of the evolution of himself, all because of the pressure to conform and to act in necessity masked as fear. 

 

Masked as SURVIVAL itself.  

He stood up and clinched his fists as the rain arrived and pelted his face and body. He didn't want to be that person anymore.

'I will not Grind against my will anymore. No more will I toil for the approval of others or for their accolades. No more will I pressure myself to act so I am seen as capable. I am capable as long as I breathe.'

 

He clinched his jaw tighter as he clasps his hands together. The wrath of the storm upon him.

 

'You scorn what made you Warrior! You cannot rid yourself of the armor without your honor!' the voice of death within bellowed in the walls of his subconscious. 

 

'I will honor them by releasing them from my flesh! I will not yield to the standard of others. I will make my own standard of honor...steadfast and in peace!'

The Warrior's bold words left his mouth before he could think against them. To reclaim them. 

 

The storm responded with rain and hail that cut the will of many men. The wind howled like hungry wolves as they gusted against the change. Lightning cracked like whips across the sky, bright and merciless with its lashes. Trees and brush bent to the will of it's might, but the Warrior did not. 

His eyes squinted against the fury of the storm. The only equal to the fury was the fury within him. 

 

He was tired of forcing. 

 

Tired of trying to be someone he didn't want to be to please the world around him while neglecting himself. 

 

He was tired of moving for the sake of moving to avoid the uncomfortable future that was never solid - one that spelled doom for the Warrior that defied fearful action.

He no longer wanted to provide or just survive. He wanted to truly live. 

 

To live, he had to let go. To drop what weighed heavy on his hands.

 

He began to pull at the base of the left gauntlet. Like when he removed the helm, his subconscious mind fluttered and contorted. Memories of deeds past flickered and scattered across his vision. His eyes forced shut to focus. To focus on the good of those moments.

 

He learned that he was capable, and he was grateful.

 

He was able to pick up on valuable skills and become resourceful. He was grateful. 

 

He was able to learn more about himself while doing. Learning what worked and didn't resonate with his inner being. He was grateful. 

 

Not all actions over time were forced or wasteful. 

 

His next breath was one of thanks. Of honor. Of appreciation.

 

'I honor you...and I release you...Gauntlets of the Grind.'

 

The warrior's eyes snapped open as lightning struck the tree in front of him and yanked off the left gauntlet. The metal within singed into his flesh popped off and stung, but the warrior would not relent. He tossed the left gauntlet forward and reached to yank the second. Ten thousand jolts of pain in his free hand was not enough to deter his will. He would be free this day as he chanted to himself through swift breaths.

 

Finally the second gauntlet clanged against the jagged floor before it, and the remaining pieces of the armor started to glow red. The radiance pierced his eyes and his skin as the gauntlets rose from the ground. The two palms came together in a form of reverence before lightning struck them from above. The strike through him backward into the treeline.

 

He groaned as the rain splashed across his face. He pulled himself up to a seated position when he noticed his hands were glowing light blue. The sensation was a contrast to the heat he felt within the gauntlets. Cold yet not frigid. A faint laugh escaped his lungs , a sound he wasn't able to make much in his later years. The laugh became a cackle as tears blended in with the rain from above. 

 

His hands were free. He no longer felt the need to force anything. To meet a standard other than his own. He could now create the life he wanted without the survival instinct to do or....

 

THOOOMMMMM !!

 

Thunder boomed as another lightning bolt pierced the ground through the tree line. Each strike seemed to get closer and closer towards him.

 

'Now what will you do, Warrior? Are you truly free from the inevitable?' said the voice of death within with a cackle that rivaled the thunder above.

 

The warrior looked on in horror as the strikes got closer. He scrambled to his feet with one thought in mind.

 

Run.

 

-To Be Continued-

 

  #UnSkrypted #OpenLoops #StillHere #HonorTheArmor #Healing #LettingGo #InkInAction #Survival #Grind #Hustle #Performance