You ache and I push you;
Otherwise we are idle,
Cementing ourselves into beds, chairs and couches.
The reality of us is hard to parse,
And as I press the lines blur:
Are you me or my?
The only philosophy I hold dictates one thing,
Which befuddles me, evades explanation:
You are both.
Running becomes an exercise of existential philosophy,
Weights are the metaphor
But to continue, this is the practice.
Each day between abstraction and the figurative
While bodily wear mounts;
Is this the path to our next evolution? or a folly along the way?