Run. The word is in my mind. Run. How would I run? Fast? Quickly? Silently? Like the wind? Like a farty wind? Probably like a farty wind. I haven’t run in years. Haven’t needed to. That in itself should inform you of how pathetic I’ve allowed myself to become. How lethargic the mind and body are, conspiring each time a muscle is asked to do something. Whispered voices to one another to flick switches in my brain that give me wisdom. Why wisdom? Because wise men don’t run. See, just like that. Wise men don’t run; you are wise; you don’t run. But now something has changed. Now the word is in my mind and an argument arises between it and my body. I remembered the exhilaration of running. A time when I was fit and could put miles under my feet with only the slightest twinges of discomfort. A discomfort that caused pleasure. A challenge overcome. A triumph of both my body and mind. But something started to happen. The discomfort turned to hints of pain. Hints of pain into a more consistent pain. And a consistent pain into, “What the hell am I doing to myself. This is not fun!” And although I haven’t run in years, I still remember the not fun feeling. Yet, I am thinking of running.