Running To Become
Few things are more euphoric than gassing it the last leg of a run.
That little bastard sits on your shoulder, taunting you to stop. Laughing, really.
You scoff. His smirk drives you towards pain. Legs that felt like thunderous boulders suddenly take flight.
The effort is madness. Your lungs are scorched with fire.
The man in the mirror demands more. Your offerings have floundered, diminished by comfort.
Step by step, the shackles break free. You are not a runner but a man. Pushed by glory, the pain dissipates.
You finish. The gods are pleased. There is no elevator to Olympus.
The battle is yours today. The war continues tomorrow.