Born to run

I was born to run. To feel the wind in my hair and to smell like smoke. I was born to run. To feel my lungs and throat catch fire. To scream a raspy but proud victory cry. Oh, to whip through the world with only my bare feet and the piercing sky at my back. Yes, I do believe I was born to run. But when I slow down, when I start to feel the aches and pains that echoed through my body, that’s when I panic. I have out ran myself, and it makes my sides hurt. And for a second, I think about stopping. To groan to a halt and to walk slowly. Don’t tell anyone, but that scares me. So I imagine myself as a wild horse. A wild horse born to run. With a tangled mane and a strong and muscled body. I imagine my feet turn hooves stomping fiercely across the grassy plains. My breath ragged and my eyes crazed. But I am oh, so happy. And then, suddenly, I realized that I am bolting again. I’m running again. It’s a good thing too, because I was born to run.