Deep inside me there is a beast that runs. It peaks through the back of my head. He curls up in a ball with one eye open, waiting. He slithers down my throat and bats at my heart, pushing the instinctual need to summon all my energies into my lungs, and legs. I feel him calling me up out of my chair, with an electric charge in my chest making me want to feel the wind in my hair and the ground beneath my feet. I feel the roar of the beast when I slip on my running shoes, calling me to the forest, demanding I blast through every mile marker like a tiger chasing antelope. The beast feels like my heart pounding, clawing his way out with every exhale. He breaks from my body and runs next to me, pushing me forward. The beast pushes back dust, billowing behind us. We pounce on the stop watch, halting its tick tock, faster every time we scream past the finish line. The beast then climbs back inside me through my stuck open mouth, sneaking back inside my heart while I gasp for air. Now he sleeps, waiting for me to put my running shoes back on.