This is the story of how we begin to remember

This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein. After the dream of falling and calling your name out. These are the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain. - Paul Simon, Under African Skies

Tonight's run felt an awful lot like that. It was HOT, although not as hot as prior nights. There was the most faint of breezes blowing, keeping the soggy cloud of heat behind my head as I ran. It was sunset when I took off, and after dark when I finished, under Arizona skies. But the rhythmic pounding of my feet, the smoothness of my breath, the pounding of my heart, is always a comfort. Its a place I know well. One where other cares fall away, are drowned out by the rise and fall of my breath, the pulse of music in my ears. Its a place where I am in control, where I alone determine my fate, whether I'm gentle with myself or demanding and hard. Pushing my body always brings a certain joy, along with pain. Because it proves that I am strong, vibrant. Alive.