The Running Man

There was a point of time, when I would wake up early in the morning. Slightly before 6, I would clamber out of bed, suit up, and jog off.

I would go on doing this even I don't feel like it. Many are the mornings when the alarm clock would slap me into lame conciousness, faithfully ringing my bells. Back then, the alarm is a Bart Simpson product, which would hail me with its "Yo dude, wake up and get out of bed!"

And by reflex, I would press the snooze button, and turn over to nuzzle even deeper into my duvet.

"Yo dude, wake up and get out of bed!"

"Yo dude, wake up and get out of bed!"

Five minutes later, I would be out of the house, jogging. And walking. Then, inconceivable only ten minutes earlier, I would run.

That short burst of energy would leave me a spent force in no time. But still I do it.

I would soar spiritually as I was being continually drained. The more I run, the harder and faster I do so, the happier I become. A huge burden would unlift, itself out of breath.

Left behind.

That's why I love it.

I felt like I was running away from my problems.

Nowadays, I don't do much running. In fact, I don't do any. Time is of the essence. The debate club, COSTA, my assignments, my videos and my family are all taking on an increasingly high place in the list of priorities.

I'd bite off more than I could possibly chew, drowning myself in mountains of work. But I'd go on struggling, fighting, trying. I'd drain myself.

But that's OK.

In a sense, it feels as if I'm still running.