I run because I have nothing to write about...

It stares at me menacingly...daring me to take a step forward. It is steep, it is long, and seemingly unending.

It can't be reasoned with. It can't be bargained with. It absolutely will not stop.

I try to put on a brave face and move forward. A stout headwind immediately slows my progress. I look skyward for help. There is none to be had.

I look down and see my feet laboring, slogging, and generally disappointing. My body reeks of fatigue. Slow death breathes down my neck..

My mind aches with the voices that serve no purpose but to undermine, unravel, and derail. I tell them to fuck off, but they know I am all bark and no bite today.

My progress has devolved to glacial flailing. The body and mind conspire against me. It's a perfect storm of capitulation. I take a few more slow, painful steps, nevertheless.

That is all I can muster. It's ugly. It's short. It's contrived. But, I pulled it off.

I managed to sully half a page with a few words, a few half baked thoughts, and numerous flaws. But, I still did something.

I set it aside. I can't be Hemingway every day. In fact, I will never be Hemingway. I need a change of scenery.

The door opens and the path goes on for as long as I need it to. Inspiration might be a few miles or a few hours away. I will find it one way or the other.

I run because I have nothing to write about.