Does running rhyme with writing?

The great outdoors isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. It’s chilly. It’s windy. It’s dark. I’ve been round a sharp bend, across the railway tracks, down one lonely road and up another. I’m fed up.

I remember the evenings I spent running in Kisumu, with the view of the sprawling hills of Kanyakwar in the distance and the warm evening breeze caressing my face. It used to be fun. Not anymore.

Today my lungs are aflame, my heart in overdrive. I stop in my tracks, retrace my steps and decide that writing is  a better use of my time.

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