Drowsy with the taste of red wine on it's lips

Somewhere in the depths of solitude, beyond wilderness and freedom, lay the trap of madness.
Edward Abbey.

Two birds are wheeling outside my window, black silhouettes against the grey Autumn sky. I've been sitting on this sagging sofa too long, staring at the skyline, undecided and unconvinced. Is it really only eight weeks since I was cloud gazing, lying back on my summer grass, green and slightly lumpy under my back and looking up. Then the sky was deep and blue and only slightly scarred by a few scruffy clouds. When the breeze blew I could smell Fox wee but this was not about that so I ignored it. This was about stopping and not doing, an emptying of activity creating space to think. The longer I lay still and looked the more I noticed. Dandelion seeds and arrowing birds, also tiny silver aircraft, precise and quick and reflecting the sun, flies and butterflies, dust motes, midges and even my sons face briefly causing a human eclipse of the sun. I'm so good at lazy meditation that I could have lain there forever looking at the hole in the Ozone layer and the dandruff of the sky but I didn't. I rolled onto my side and rose to my feet. I had to act. I had to seek the trap of madness so I slapped my Vibrams to my feet, kissed the forehead of the child who eclipses the sun and went out running. It was easy.
To be frank I may as well have remained in that somnolent state. I think the spirit of running which used to live in me is still stretched out on my grass drowsy with the taste of red wine on it's lips or more likely is roaming the trails leaving a whiff of smelly running shoe and seeking me.
It's become hard.
In the transition between the seasons something has become broken and running has become reasonably rare because it's difficult to move without an engine. We need fire and for fire we need a spark. Frances has a song called Don't Worry About Me and for the first minute she sings Acapella before striking one gorgeous note on the Piano. To me this is where the song really begins, it is the spark that the rest of the song is built on, the piano becomes the engine carrying her stunning voice. I'm seeking that spark, that single piano note that will reunite me with my running spirit and ignite a flame to carry me through the long and cold winter months ahead. I am confident it will happen and I will transition from inconsistent to habitual again, I've come too far and run for far too long, it's deeply ingrained in me and it won't let me go.

The child who eclipses the sun.