A piece I had started writing in summer, to commemorate my 100th post. The 100th post came and went, but the piece remains unfinished. This morning, while rummaging through the drawers, found the closing part of the piece scribbled behind a ticket: I had written it just after returning from a long, tiring run, even before I could get out of my shoes. Pity, I neither run, nor write anymore.
While I was running this evening, chasing another self-made goal -- of distance, not of speed or time -- it struck me how my running is eerily similar to my writing. Just like I run alone, without any support, guide or coach, I write alone too. Just like I had never written before in life, I had never ran either. And yet, today, I cannot do without any of the two.
Sometimes I sprint, sometimes I jog, sometimes I only walk.
When I walk, I am more receptive to things around me. I see the flowers and notice the birds, I feel the breeze and sense the heat. Just like when I write slowly and steadily, I have the time to focus on others' works, to see what is happening around me, to learn from others. Although lost in those trappings I sometimes forget to run and have to remind myself of my goal.
When I run, even for a short distance, I loose my breath. I can neither concentrate on my surroundings, nor the experience; all I do is think about reaching the (self made) finishing line. I sweat, I pant, I loose my breath; my heart meanwhile is ready to break out of the chest. But in the end, I am always happy. There is a sense of pride in my own little achievement, something I can share with no one but myself. When I write maniacally, for days and nights, I feel the same: I am tired and lost, with only one goal in mind: finishing the piece.