I don’t know how to make myself go for a run. I don’t know how to remember how good it feels, I mean really remember, so that I’ll climb the stairs and shed my Saturday clothes in favour of something that will seep up the sweat. I don’t know how to reconcile the fact that I have never done it for anybody but myself, or with anybody but myself. How to tell myself that the darker it gets, the less I’ll want to go out, because the whole point is to see things (isn’t it?), and not to run blind in a straight black line under the mist, the April stars that must be hiding somewhere, the haze of streetlights.
So what if I only do it so I can feel the city air run past my body? So what if I never go far enough, for long enough, hard enough? At least I do it. So what if my favorite part is the part after? (I’ve never told anybody that, it would be cheating, I’ve let myself think, but forget cheating, for awhile.)
The part where I can feel my muscles and my bones and my breath.