So I ran again today. I wasn’t going to because I ate disgusting things for lunch and felt funky. Then I decided I was going to run. And I did.
It’s day two. Just day two. I ran a ridiculous amount. I ran far better than Monday. My lungs burned as they expanded. My legs ached. My knee hurt. My vision tunneled. My gut rebelled. I ran.
I ran past the cute girl with the adorable dog. I ran past the adorable couple with the dog. I was passed by a lot of people. On bikes. Running. Walking because I got something lodged in my shoe.
I returned home, dying. I didn’t sweat because it was too cold. I took off my Last Light shirt, the shirt that made me think, “I’m a Guardian. I’m a Titan,” the entire run. I jumped in the shower. I ate. I ate more than I should have, but at least it was lean, healthy, clean.
As I started to relax, as the shower and the food kicked in, my mind exploded. I did push ups. I bounced up and down. I wrote. I read. I lived. Oh how I lived because of the life giving exhilaration of running.
I bothered the crap out of my friends because I feel like a puppy without training. Aside from using the toilet. I totally do not go on the floor.
Oh how I hurt, how my calves are sore, how my lungs still suffer, how my head swoons, my breaths are ragged, and I am alive. I feel alive.
I miss this. But I also hurt. I hurt so so bad. Which usually makes me sleep so so good.
...like butta' on your toast!
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