Who the fuck could run a marathon?

 

What kind of psychopath does it take to remain in physical motion for so long?

 

My limbs have never been as strong as the rest,

 

As far as endurance is concerned.

 

I can lift

 

Operate

 

But the idea of a marathon is bullshit to me.

 

We run because we must.

 

Limits are fun to break

 

But some leave no value in the wake of their destruction.

 

What is left at the end of one of these daunting jogs?

 

Sweat?

 

It evaporates.

 

Fitness?

 

It fades with age.

 

And suddenly the clown wearing a mask of my own face laughs on my shoulder.

 

"The sun rises and your words are as cheap as when it set!" The Jester cackles.

 

And here I sit.

 

As futile as the pace keeper I mock.

 

With no sweat.

 

With no physical gain.

 

But with the same nonsense,

 

That has echoed,

 

And will repeat itself ever fading,

 

Into the cavern of my past,

 

and its bound future.