Running

A very short and unfinished thing.

Running is kind of fun, when you first start. It’s a feeling of freedom, of exhilaration. You can kind of get why athletes like it so much. Then it fades as your weak-a*s leg muscles fail you and begin screaming for the oxygen you’re struggling to drag into your lungs. You remember why you aren’t an athlete and why you actually hate running and why it’s a chore. The throat-burning,  shin-splinting pain of motion that your body is putting you through in order to let you know it’s unhappy, the pain that you must ignore because you have to keep going without and end in sight and, if you don’t stop, they’ll catch you and that can’t happen for obvious reasons.

I don’t know how long I’ve been going.

I’d never known that I had such stamina, but adrenaline can do that to you. Now it seems to be fading, though. I spot a dramatic rock formation nearby and quickly duck into one of the dark, spidery crevices between stones. The cool air, formerly refreshing back in that exhilarating stage of my run, is now painfully cold as my sweat evaporates into the early evening air. I pray to my Lady for safety from my pursuers.