Purpose, and the lack thereof.
I felt like writing about my rise, my trials and my triumphs before I started running. Halfway through the lap I realized that I wasn't running, I was escaping. My breath wanted to seize me and my muscles told me to stop, to rest, so that there would be no more pain. But I couldn't. All I wanted was to run away from my life, all the meaningless, trivial details of it. Forfeit the battle, surrender the war, cloak myself into a white flag and flee.
What drives me towards this great escape is my purpose, which has kept me up two nights in a row. My purpose, which was supposed to be a fortress to shelter in, a banner held high and a horse to ride on, became first a faint figure in the mist, then a ghost. I wanted to write about the phoenix of my identity, a rise from the ashes of a forgotten purpose, newly regained and fought for. The newborn bird was shot before it hatched and all that's left is the ashes, blown away in the cold wind that feels like spring but tastes like autumn.
At the moment when I had the enlightenment of realizing my escape I felt unpurposeful. My stalemate life was now visible in front of me and the strategist in me saw no ways for victory. Forgotten, void, useless. Just another man in the vanguard who at first thought he was something, then realized that his life is shortly lived in the front row. Just another lover without a rose.
I don't feel like writing about my rise anymore - there never was any ascent. I don't feel like writing about my trials - there will always be trials to write about and the important ones will be written about without any hesitation. I don't feel like writing about my triumphs - a man with a purpose has triumphed over his obstacles, a man without has not.