Heavy eyelids stare at worn feet guided by an erratic heart. Do all things turn out such? Can I not have a moment of respite? Is it mere insanity that keeps me going with any sense of hope?
I ask myself why I never give up. Even when there is little hope left, why do I strive to move forward? But I know the answer. The act of retreat is cowardly, the acceptance of mediocrity, fatal. On some runs, my lungs close up on me. I wheeze only moments into it. My face reddens. My heart flutters to keep up. My mind is suddenly torn. Which is better? To stop and allow my body to recover or to finish the set goal even if more than mile more at the same pace? I nearly always finish. The next run is always easier.
I would rather die than give up on my goals of having a worthwhile life. I will not settle for any woman just to be comfortable. I would like to be on fire in love and care about her in a way unparalleled. I will not raise my children to look at their father as one who gave up or did not try hard enough. I will not serve as an example for some who take my failure as a justification of their own slow descent into safe oblivion. I would sooner meet my final fate than succumb to the abysmal ranks of not having any lows at the expense of not having any highs.