I began running in order to push myself. I didn’t run gracefully or admirably. It was the ugly run of someone beyond their limit and this is what I enjoyed.
The thrill of doing something I previously thought I couldn’t was exhilarating. I treated it is a form of masochism. At times when I failed or was not up to par I would make a pact that there would be punishment. Running myself into the ground was the punishment, and at the end of the ordeal I at last felt worthy again.
When I was running my personality seemed to spilt. One voice whispered to have a rest, while the other beckoned me anger for even having the thought of stopping. If I imagined running an extra distance, I would have to push myself to it, because to not carry out the action was to be a coward.
Before I started running I felt like I was imprisoned by my body’s lazy and greedy nature. I used to think that it was myself telling my body to keep going despite its pleas for me to yield. No one is the master of me, I would think with pride.
To my horror however this motivational habit I created has now taken on a life of its own. It whispers to me of my weakness just as my old habit of laziness used to whisper to me to slow down and give up, the similarities between the two is uncanny. Sitting on the couch isn’t healthy I know, but neither is running till you throw up and are fucked up for the entire day. One master was replaced with another- just when I thought I was free the cage was dropped. Life certainly is full of tricks and pitfalls, I suppose in the end we are all just a continuous battle of our habits.