The guy who I run with (ambivalent monk… he’s on my blogroll) wrote a post on running right after his last post. I agree with every thing he said. In fact, I want to take what he said a little further in regards to what running means to me.
I can think of a million reasons why I run. I run sometimes to stay in shape. I run sometimes to kill the boredom/monotony of everyday life. I also run to run away.
There’s been times in my life where things are wrong, so wrong, that I really don’t know what else to do. I’m a writer by trade (of sorts, and among other things), but I can never accurately depict my own emotions on paper. By the same means, I’m also a miserable song writer, else I would have written a hit single by now. I’m not an artist, not an emo-kid (one of my blogs says different though…), not one to confide in others. Therefore, I try to connect with my humanity; I try to exert my emotions physically using running as a catalyst. I run because of love, because of the passing of a good event, because I sometimes feel the need to feel alive. But I also run out of fear, which I feel are the most interesting runs. They start off slow, but turn into all out sprints, as if I’m being chased by whatever has been haunting me. I’ve ran out of self loathing as a sort of healthy punishment (but it’s a miserable reason to run… don’t ever do it). I’ve ran out of anger. I’ve also ran because of loss in attempt to forget.
Of course, running doesn’t make the sad events in life pass any quicker or better than the good events, but it is excellent as a way to cope. Running almost presents me with a spiritual connection to whatever it is I’m feeling. It may not be an actual art, but it is my art.
(Note: Despite how frequent I run, I am by no means an expert runner, and definitely not and will never be a track star, nor am I in extremely good shape like most distance runners are.)