Pace Runs are like storms on the horizon, they truly aren't that bad. Yes, I can never really allow myself to catch my breath, and depending on how you look at it, my legs ache more than they should. But that's always the point, isn't it? Storms loom and coyly suggest darker rooms for darker deeds. Eventually they will win out. My future shadow assures me that my pace run isn't going well. He reminds me just how quickly 365 days can pass. Like that, he says, snapping his fingers for accentuation.
Do not break form, The Lord descended the skies just to tell me. I say, this is where all roads lead anyway, even migratory patters rest here long. Do not break form, he reiterates.
I have this dream where three bears follow me out of the woods. They keep near-by whether sipping the last milk from a sugar laden bowl or topping off the fuel to my car. They aren't the most pleasant bunch, adorned with reckless chatter of how it used to be. I tell them: Grow up. Get over it. But still they persist. And right beside me, out of place in a desert, they are logging many miles, making many things right.