Runnin' "I ran. I ran until my muscles burned and my veins pumped battery acid. And then I ran some more." Fight Club After a week a strenuous, cognitive, force-feeding, what better to do than go for an equally strenuous run? It's that whole eastern idea of balance: if part of me is going to be in pain, I might as well put the whole in pain. Upon entering the gigantic, materialistically-driven, recreational complex, I'm reminded of the miserably humid summers of southern Texas. Sweat saturates the air like chloroform at a rave. As I step on the track I relive those familiar feelings of how this act is rendering me a conformist and proving my utterly conspicuous sell-out-ness. I start running, while constantly attempting to convince myself of the reasons I am here: the mind cannot live without the body, running is just another means increasing self-consciousness, or maybe it's just the cute girls? Although only a fraction of the population is diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, up to fifteen percent evidence at least some symptoms. One of which is an all-or-nothing attitude towards life. I must admit that I "suffer" (not really suffer, maybe display, but I'm not sure it's such a bad thing) from this particular outlook. I may not be capable of running long distances anymore, I run for more individualistic goals. Namely, to run until I feel nauseous, and then run a while longer. The after-run hangover is one of worst feelings in the world. I dizzily stumble around with distorted eyesight and delayed hearing not helping me in reaching my destination. Often I am forced to take comfort on the warm, moist, rec floor when the nausea becomes too much. I walk lurched forward like a hunchback so as to put the least possible pressure on my tender stomach. It is around this time that I become angry with myself. "Why are you doing this to yourself? You're not a runner anymore; are you trying to live out your boyhood dreams or what?" I open the door to my room and collapse upon the floor. After a short but refreshing sleep I have the energy to open my eyes. The fuzziness begins to focus, but something is different. Square-shaped ceiling tiles begin to shift with each other. Prominence is given to the most insignificant shadow on the wall. Flashes of bright colors briefly appear in my periphery. With concentration, I conquer the hallucinations. I tell them what, where, and how to appear. This is that self-consciousness think I alluded to earlier. Feeling the thrill of entering the unconscious headstrongly and proclaiming consciousness the new sovereign leader. I am no longer angry at myself for putting my body through such unnecessary pain. It is a weak sort of necessity that defines all goals based on lack of pain; a negative hedonism I guess you would call it. Living for the body? I suppose it might be courageous to admit to oneself that man is no better than an orangutan, but what if he's wrong? I will continue my rec center odysseys.