Bookavore

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Sometimes it’s quite easy to run. I step out on the track, and I run around and around and around, and once in a while, a spring is released in my body after a mile or so, and I am flooded with power. Sweat springs to my surface, and I speed along with no effort, as in a dream of flying. I try to forget these episodes as soon as they’re over; I feel that running on the basis of hoping for another one would be like believing in God in order to pray for a Mercedes.

Sometimes it’s very difficult to run, and boring, too. Each lap seems endless, and my legs feel stiff and weighted. It’s even difficult on these days to remember how many laps I’ve done. On these bad days, I sometimes feel so tired that just going home is a major endeavor. People in the street seem to sense my fatigue and say wounding things about me. These people should be more careful. People look so solid, I look so solid, walking along; but hit suddenly with something heavy, people could just topple over or gust into air like old, empty cardboard boxes.

On extremely good days, I step smartly out the door to go home, and people in the street move over to include me in their numbers, or even nod approvingly as I walk along exhibiting human health. On such days the winter seems mild and pleasant.