I dream about running. Literally.
I’m not a runner. I’m a wanna-be runner who laces up approximately once a year when the weather is just starting to be cool in the mornings again. I run for maybe twenty minutes, walking some minutes, running some minutes, alternating until I find a rhythm. I do it for maybe a week straight, feel my legs start to ache and stretch pleasurably, then I miss one morning and it’s gone again.
Whoops. Try again next time.
But then I’ll fall asleep some nights and inexplicably dream about pounding the pavement, running up and down stairs, not gasping for breath, not feeling like my chest is on fire, but simply loving it, running for the joy of it.
I’ve never felt that in real life.
But I want to. The strange thing is, nobody is forcing me to do this. It isn’t an external/ peer pressure/media influence thing for me. It’s something else deep inside me that keeps trying to tell me, hey, you know if you really gave it a shot, there’s this thing you might be good at. And that thing keeps coming back with the same message, because once in a while, I actually listen.
Maybe that’s why I keep lacing up my mostly neglected sneakers, even through the resistance that tells me there’s no point since I’m only going to give up again. Even through the tiny bolts of shame at how the simple act of lacing up reminds me of how often I don’t do it.
Somewhere in some alternate universe OtherSila has figured out the discipline and knows what that joy of exertion really feels like.
Maybe I keep trying again because I’m trying to break through that veil and discover what she knows. And maybe one day I will know what it feels like to love it more than I fear failing at it.