For some things, there are no answers….

Bleary eyed, cotton mouthed and foggy headed, I stood at the foot of my bed and pulled open the door to the constantly baffling cupboard that sat snugly and smugly connected to the wall. It seemed to mock me as I blindly and mole-like pawed at the mountain of odd socks, faded underpants and tubes of something akin to frayed elephant legs. I was looking for my running gloves, my digital protectors.

Peering momentarily to my right, I looked outside and my heart sank. I could see no further than a millimeter or so beyond the glass. That is not strictly true. I could also see the violently balletic waft and swat of the branches of the tree across the road. They jerked with mesmeric and sinister grace, trying desperately to rid itself of the weather than pelted it. It was at this point – as I pulled on my special running pants under my special running tights (no man should wear anything that is sold as tights) and stumbled around the room with all the panache and elegance of a drunken Goose, attempting to pull myself in to my thick football socks – that a thought occurred. It was a thought that echoed through the ages. It was a very human thought. It was a very prosaic and philosophical thought. It was a thought that can be heard from the all ages, from the fat , wheezing child deprived of more artery clogging trans-fats, to the willowy, beaten and gaunt man about to enter Ikea against his will.

In its simplest form, the thought is just one word and one piece of bendy punctuation; “Why?”.

In my case this thought picked up a few more words as I stepped outside and any extremity, large or small, regressed to where it had come from as I was beaten by the cold and the wind. My thought had transformed in to a somewhat more robust; “Why the fuck am I doing this to myself?” It still had the bendy punctuation, but had now picked up a very relevant swear word.

I pondered for a moment as my toes slowly and maniacally lost all feeling. Why was I doing this to myself? Some have accused me of masochism, some have accused me of being brain dead and one person actually suggested that it gave me a nice tingly feeling in the place that was now trying with all its might to leave no part sticking out of me. As I started to jog along with the poise and style of a step ladder, I could only come to one simple conclusion; there simply is now answer.

crop sheep stare

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