Run, run, run my life away.
That’s what I think,
And that’s what people say.
They see me running;
Sometimes once, and
Sometimes twice a day;
“Why do you run so much?” they ask.
“Because I like it,” I reply.
“How can you like to run? It’s not natural,” they insist.
“Oh yes it is,” I resist; at which time I take out my Smith .38, cock it, point it at their head, and see them run.
Run. Run. Away.
Donn, fragments 
My God; I don’t know why I wrote this, but it came out better than expected. This entry really was supposed to be about a run I just had; but apparently, words on the run refused to come out; instead, what went through my mind was how I was literally running my life away, and how bad, on the surface, that seemed.
I mean, how many people would like to define their lives as “running”? But thinking about it, practically everything else can be deemed just as pointless. Why become good at any game? Are any games whatsoever worth whatever time you invest in it? (I’m thinking computer games here, but really, other types of games, including sports could be substituted here.)
The first few lines of the poem — it wasn’t suppposed to be a poem, but it came out that way — was something I told my friends before, that I was “running my life away”. The tone I used was more ironical than sad or regretful, especially since I do enjoy running.
The second stanza is what I think my friends think when they see me coming back from a run: their looks of astonishment followed by pity is really difficult to miss. They wonder to themselves how anyone could actually enjoy running; I don’t know how to answer them, as liking running is like falling in love: you don’t really know why, you just do.
The part about taking out my Smith .38 (.38 calibre Smith & Wesson, the first gun that came to mind) came out of the blue, and fitted in surprisingly well. After I wrote “it’s not natural”, I immediately thought to myself, “but it is”. Everybody — that is, every able-bodied person — runs… …when they need to.
run so much. wait cardiac arrest.