One of the things I take pure, uncomplicated joy in is running. Just straightforward running, nowhere to go and no need to be there, thinking of nothing but dropping my feet, the flight and power of it, the wind and the rain and the night.

...so it's a darn shame I'm so *horribly* out of shape I can't go more than about thirty yards before I'm breathless and heart pounding and muscles sore and teeth aching. It's *really* frustrating, in fact. To bad I lack the gumption to actually do anything about it.

( What 3 (or so) fandoms, genres or pairings are you reading or writing that you would have scoffed at during a more respectable (and ill-informed) period of your life? )

I have health marks! w00t! It's been so long since I had proper health marks!

It must be the weather.

Yes, running for sheer joy is one thing. Running on a 6-inch curb in windy weather and bulky clothes while sleep-deprived, with eyes closed and shoes untied--

I've learned that I do indeed instinctively roll into a fall; good to know I've been writing that well. I haven't got any bruises, just properly bloody knees and scraped palms. As usual I don't remember the fall itself, but I remember spinning into it. The exhilaration and perfection of it, knowing that missing a step, losing a shoe, and ending up sprawled over half the sidewalk with my books scattered across twenty feet was in fact something I had planned and executed perfectly, something graceful and filled with wings.

No, I am not hopped up on endorphins, I've been like this all day, thank you. Now to attempt to rinse the blood out of my sweats.