Writing Reality

You stay alive. Yet it never ends. 35 years ago, today I was supposed to be dead. But here I am currently sitting behind a computer writing this to you, the reader. This would not be an ordinary death. No. Not one that anyone would like to talk about—your spouses, your family, your friends and so forth. This death would be filled with rage. I will say rage enough to take out Putin and all his armies at least. I still feel that today, deep down in the basement of my soul. That rage still moves me. Oh, I’ve gone to and gone through the best therapies. Yet it remains. Perhaps my business here is not done. I might be a conduit of some sort. Who knows. I thought this morning as I gently stretched after chores, hoping my pain would not entice me to withhold my desire to run. Yesterday’s run was brutal. I eeked out 1.31 miles in a 8:23 per mile pace feeling pain the whole way. Thank God, I decided not to work my way through a local ultra-marathon today. It would have been the race I’d treat...