It’s raining out. He’s wearing a black hoodie, gray shorts; the hood is down, his hair free to absorb the drops of rain. It is neither a sprinkle nor a downpour; rather, it is the in-between, sometimes a cause for enjoyment, most times a nuisance. We do not yet know which it is for him.
He bends and touches his toes with his fingers. Then he crouches, straightens his right leg while bending his left, then switches legs, repeats. The rain seems to have no effect on him, as if he doesn’t even know it is there. So, even if not a nuisance, enjoyment is unclear… unlikely.
Now he’s running the track. No, he’s sprinting. He stops at 100 yards. Then he repeats. Repeats. Repeats.
…It is still raining. He is still sprinting. Then comes a change. Not in his action, his motion—that continues. The change is a shift in weather. The in-between is over. Present now is the inevitable downpour. Cracks of thunder, lightning in the distance. Puddles are forming on the track. And yet he continues.
He pushes through the puddles. They may slow him, but they also force him to increase his intensity. And still… still… though you can see him growing tired, weary from this his intentional endeavor, he continues to act as if the elements are not present, as if he accepts them as being one with the struggle.
There is poetry in his struggle. In his growing weariness. In this his drenched and oblivious state. To him, sweat and raindrops are the same.
…He completes one final sprint, its finality being apparent before its beginning. There was a change in posture before this one, a certain knowingness exuding from him. And while it could simply be a case of relief, the observer knows that this is something more, something inevitable but only activated through will.
The rain has stopped. The storm over. Glimmers of sunshine force their way through the receding dark clouds. He’s out of the frame. Smiling, reflecting.
Thanks for writing for me mark😂