I detest the act of running while I’m doing it. What the hell is chasing me? What am I running from? Literally or metaphorically, I have no idea. Perhaps I chase greatness, something that continues to elude me, no doubt by my own fault. For only fools and cowards fully blame others for their own misgivings. Running is painful, running is punishment. Every stride hurts, every inch, every foot must be earned through hard, repetitive work.
My mind begs me to stop, sending signals to make my muscles ache, and the darkness entices me to quit. But when the light in me fights the darkness, when I start running faster and harder, when I say to myself don’t quit, keep going, I begin seeing the value in this activity. It’s more than just a way to cut the pounds that are weighing me down, it becomes a real metaphor for fighting the demons that I harbor inside. The very same ones that drown me in abysmal thoughts and want me to reach for the bottle.
When I run and when I push, I fight for the right to call myself strong and to expel weakness and despair from mind, body, and soul. There is a great sense of accomplishment from reaching the finish line for the day. The brain releases its chemicals to ease the burning lungs, the battered feet, and mangled legs. And I feel like a champion for a while. My problems no longer seem unconquerable; my mind is sharp and my body a bit stronger.
I sleep sounder after the punishment, but the next day, and forevermore, I must do the same to keep the wolves at bay.