Nails.
Yesterday I wrote an essay about what kind of a learner I am. It came out to be a fairly hideous piece of work, written just because it had to be written. I don't like forcing my fingers to type or making my inner self imagine things I should write about. I decided to take my frustation outside, and put my running shoes on. I ran for quite a while and made my way to a quite long stairway. I ran the stairs up and down until my lungs said: "No more." The burning inside my lungs felt awful and great at the same time. Weirdly enough, I've missed that feeling.
I came back home, showered and ate. I decided to give the essay one more look and my fingers just started flying around the keyboard, my mind blooming with new ideas on how to make this distasteful text into something worth my time.
Also, clipping the fingernails of my right hand is excruciating. I seriously wonder how it can be so hard to use scissors with my left hand.
.aren't we all running?.
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