8.2 for 28

Birthdays used to make me cry; this year the weather bore the brunt of emotions while I stayed strangely calm.  Pathetic fallacy, or simply coincidence?  Tucking in toward the biting wind, I couldn’t help but laugh as my face began to freeze, a cold headache spreading forehead to temple, stiff fingertips curled into mitten tops.  A brief contemplation of the possibility of frostnip or worse on exposed flesh; a resounding response to ignore the temporary stinging of bare ankles, lest worse come afoot.  Onward toward the churning surf, cackling with the seagulls as they bob, weave, and otherwise remain motionless in the blustery gusts, faces facing forward in dips and lulls.

To move is to live; to run is to move; to live, I run.  Wild and gnashing, the weather pulled me out the door – just a few miles, just a little bit of living; sometimes it is necessary to do things just because, on the principle of the thing.  To run on a beautiful day is pleasant, perhaps bordering on sublime.  But to run on a day so full of malcontent as this, now maybe that may be seen as a true labor of love, or indignation, or unrelenting urge to manipulate the hands of time as they grope savagely at my ever-aging being.  Never did I truly consider the youthfulness of my countenance until the burgeoning smile lines and increasingly etched eye crinkles gave me pause two weeks ago.  Elasticity of features taken for granted, laurels ridden on like so many parade floats, until the years begin to show, folded in corners of mouths and eyes.

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