One more time around might do it.
— the prophet cornell
You’re standing in the imaginary lane 9 of the little dirt track. It’s a gloomy day and nobody else is in sight except a homeless guy huffing spray paint next to the boys room (don’t tell mo).
Your body refuses to run, so you’re destined to another day of moseying along at a 15-minute pace, chasing a dream that moves farther and farther away in the distance every day.
You’re tired. Of chemo, of getting old, of the failing monkey heart, of dashed hopes and off-brand ice cream.
So you just stand there, hands in the pockets of your old beloved shorts that refuse to die even as you have resigned yourself to your fate.
The little voice in your head asks:
Why? Why are you doing this?
But you can’t come up with an answer. You have nothing to prove, no huge goals, no particular reason to keep going. It all seems so futile some days.
The only answer you can come up with is more of another question.
So you shrug, turn up the Soundgarden boys as loud as the iPhone will allow, and settle into the little path leading around the football field.
It’s another day to excel, the prophet Michael Flores once told you somewhere on the Oregon coast. Maybe excellence won’t be holding a stopwatch at the finish.
Why are you doing this?
Why not …