I went for a run again today. This makes two days in a row, but this one I went alone.
My legs ached (and still do) unused to and atrophied from my period of complacence. The cold air burned my lungs, or more my heart by feeling and place (and if not the air, maybe cigars stored up and unburnt through).
There was a strong head wind in one direction that filled my sweatshirt hoodie like a sail and dragged like a parachute sled back when that was something I used (many moons ago).
Still, I went; and beginning again—even in reworking through beginnings and aches—is better than resigning self to state I do not wish to be.
I didn’t go as far as day before; but progress isn’t linear nor force-planned. It’s movement, and I made that—step on step until back at beginning.
It’s nice to move, to feel yourself again; even when it aches in the atrophy of forgetting how and who.
Moving, in time, we remember again.