August 18, 2004




  • The hardest time for me to run is during, just before, or on the edge of a thunderstorm.


     


    It is not the fear factor—lightning emboldens, empowers, excites me.


     


    It is not the threat of wet—I love to drip, splatter, soak, splash in the fury of activity.


     


    It is not the charged, moist air—but to pant harder is a measure of loving devotion.


     


    It is not the whip of winds—the thrash of a seething tempest only serves more to impel.


     


    It is not  added weight of sogginess—for what you take on, you can take off.


     


    It is not even the instantaneous bubble of drawn enclosure that descends—for the heart may soar when public connectedness ends.


     


    Rather, it’s the matter that a thunderstorm nearly always puts me in a mood to make mad, passionate, nearly-surreal surrendering love.  I’d rather deluge-love than cloudburst-run.


     


    Yet I ran today during a thunderstorm.  Again.

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