Software and mind!!

He would stretch, breathe deeply a few times,
psych his mind into the upcoming harshness he was
about to face, and then dash off like the wind and always
keep the pace until he absolutely couldn't endure the
pain anymore.

Doing this everyday for the past year no matter
what condition his body or mind was in brought his
current running credentials to professional athlete status.
Because his pace was so intense, he could not
last a marathon. Those kinds of runners include a certain
pace that, although fast, they cannot give their all from
beginning to end.
Not like Eric Philpot.
And it wasn't about winning anything. It wasn't
about being an athlete. And it definitely wasn't for his
own health. Well maybe… partly.
A doctor Eric met once on a bus specifically told
him to either A: "Slow it down there, hot shot." Or B:
"Why don't you run your little heart out on one day and
then jog the next?" And this was because: "You're not
doing your body any justice. Because your eating habits
are so up and down, you're running off muscle tissue
while you're going warp nine. Your heart is in shock when
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it goes from zero miles per hour and then accelerates to
a hundred. You need to slow down, take a walk, shoot –
ever thought of taking the day off? What are you trying
to train for anyway?"
It wasn't about training for anything either.
What was it about?
An obsession is an interesting subject because
those of any sort go beyond a simple passion for
something. Some of it cannot be explained even by the
most plagued OCD subjugates. Sometimes things just
aren't meant to make sense. No need to obsess on
thinking about why that is.
He had to run.
There was a bigger reason than just a simple
obsession.
It started last year when he got fed up with not
being able to sleep.
He would toss and turn all night. No matter how
hard he worked or how much his brain had processed
that day, his body wouldn't do what his mind was dying
for. During the "fully" awakened parts of his day, he
noticed he was more irritable and couldn't think clearly.
He would do anything for some sleep. He had tried all
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kinds of sleeping pills: Lunesta, Ambien, Tylonel, and
sometimes all three. They worked but then he found he
couldn't function at his job or with his friends. Damned if
you, damned if you don't.
So he would switch off with the pills each week.
One week, he would be a savage and just try to sleep,
but of course never could. Then when his body ached for
sleep, he would take the next week taking the sleeping
pills. But he never felt good either way.
Finally, one day, he had enough. He would work
out now and then, but nothing too significant. His body
was too exhausted from not ever being fully regenerated.
But it was that one day of epiphany last year that
destroyed that lifestyle (if you want to call it that).
That late Saturday morning, June 25th, 2011,
after lying in bed since 8:00pm the night before and not
getting a wink of sleep, he stared up at the ceiling and
said "No more."
No other statement made more sense to him.
He ached out of bed, tense as hell, and cracked
his back as he stood up.
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Looking at the mirror, he looked at himself. He
could feel the blackness he saw underneath his eyes, how
it made him so ugly and visibly drained.
What woman will ever want to come near me?
I'm hideous. I'm uninteresting. They don't wanna hear
what I've been thinking all night. They wanna talk about
movies, and good party times they had, and how well
they slept last night. Like me… no not like me. I don't
sleep. I stay up thinking about the meaning behind
everything. Maybe the harder I think, the more school I
don't need. While everyone else is sleeping, I can find the
answers to life all by not sleeping. Maybe doctors don't
want people to have dementia because somehow they
know that in that chaotic world, there are answers.
Answers that will put those money-hungry pompous
bastards out of business. What am I analyzing? I'm so
ugly.
He had enough. No more.
He felt so shitty. Always did. The intensity of the
shitty feeling was definitely most felt in the morning. His
muscles would be tight all over, his brain would be
drained from thinking so much, the brightness hurt his
eyes something awful, and the worst part was the
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realization that this new day would be worse than the
day before. Because there were no up and down days.
Only down and downer, in that order.
Defying the feelings of his horribleness, he put
on his gym shorts, took his shirt off, put on his shoes and
marched to the front door.
He opened the door and felt that terrible
headache he always got when he got his first look
outside. Most of the people that looked out this morning
would have thanked God for such a glorious looking day.
Bright and sunny. 80 degrees. Flowers blooming. Leaves
slightly swaying in the calm wind.
Not for Eric.
Ulgh. Gross.
Why me?
He tricked his mind to pretend that the
brightness didn't bother him, that it had subsided as fast
as it came. But of course, it hurt just as bad, but even
flawed thinking is still thinking, and God knows he was
good at that.
He bent down and placed his house key under
the welcome mat, still not exactly knowing what he was
just about to do.
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He walked down the apartment stairs and across
the lawn to the sidewalk and planted his feet.
What am I doing?
What am I about to do?
Without questioning the instinctive voice that
yelled "Move!", he burst out in a flash.
He was about to stop in the first few seconds
and ask himself what the hell he was doing, but
something inside him pushed that thought away and
made him continue.
Faster, faster.
He hadn't run in months. He had played soccer
and tennis with some old college buddies but that was it.
Working out for him was so sporadic; one couldn't define
his stature as a guy who gets frequent physical exercise.
His breath began to give out after just a quarter
mile.
Keep going.
He increased his speed.
Now he knew what that voice wanted him to do.
And for those moments that he was running as
fast as he could for the first time, he was only thinking
and feeling ONE thing: I'm exhausted.
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That pushed him more.
His body felt so empty. He didn't know about
runner's diets or hydration requirements or any of that. It
wasn't about that. He didn't exactly know what it was
about at all that made him start running. Just that voice.
That voice was now not just the dominant but
the solo thought in his head.
Twenty four seven, his brain was thinking about
ten different things at a time. One for a minute would be
the primary thought while all the others were changing
places in the importance list until finally one of those
then would shuffle the first primary thought down the list
and would be the new topic of focus. It was a very
frustrating thing to live with. Not ever being calm. Not
ever just enjoying one single moment.

But in this single moment, although it was not
an enjoyable moment, it was very much single. Very
much focused. The only thing on his mind was his speed
and his breath and that was it.
For the first time since he could remember, his
brain was at peace.
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Finally, after heaving and almost losing balance,
he forced his last few breaths out of him and collapsed in
a blackout in the middle of the community park.
No thoughts. No worries. No aches.
He was asleep.
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Chapter 2
And he was hooked.
From then on, every morning of everyday, just
like the one today, he would push his body and breathing
to the ultimate max.
After a month or so, he was able to push it as
hard as he could without passing out. He crossed that
threshold.
For the month that he did, it was because he
was desperate. The first time he maxed out in the
community park, he was out for ten hours. The best ten
hours of his life. His body and mind knew he was lacking
in rest and so even though he could have been only
unconscious for maybe two hours, his mind was telling
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his body "No, don't get up yet. It's taken years to get this
far – let's embrace this!"
The only reason he woke up that first time was
because the nurse wouldn't stop doing all she could to
awaken him. Who knows how long he could have lasted.
But he wasn't upset. Even one hour would have
been acceptable.
"Talk about getting the wind knocked out of you.
What were you running from? Aliens?"
He heard the voice but he didn't open his eyes
just yet. He could have, but he chose not to. His eyes
were always open; they needed a break.
His smell was returning though. That was
involuntary.
The smell was a little unpleasant.
The taste was a very dry and subtle nasty
aftertaste.
Puke?
Did I puke?
He finally opened his eyes and moved his head
all around.
The florescent light was in his face, but he
noticed for the first time that it didn't bother him. In fact,
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he ended up staring at the long cylinder glowing bulbs for
a few seconds, absorbing the once in a lifetime feeling of
the tolerance of the light rather than hatred.
He finally moved his head down more towards
what was in front of him.
An obese woman, probably in her early thirties,
was staring directly at him.
For a fraction of a second, he was shocked.
How normal do I feel? Jesus Christ.
Because of his condition, he never felt it right to
judge anyone because he was so abnormal. But as good
as he had felt for the first time, his miniature shock was
that of "I'm having a negative judgment about someone.
Am I allowed? She's really fat. Goddamn."
It was such a split second thought though; he
quickly couldn't remember what he was thinking.
He took a second to think about how to start
thinking again.
Usually, ten thousand thoughts would be
swarming around in his brain before he even ever did
wake up (of course those were on the days he took the
sleeping pills the night before).
What's going on? Why is my brain silent?
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…
This is AWESOME!
"How are you feeling, young man?"
Her voice sounded different. Granted he never
met this woman before in his life. But he could tell that
the atmosphere of her voice's resonance wasn't so
intrusive. It wasn't bothersome. And he knew it wasn't
just this particular woman. Under "normal"
circumstances, her voice would have hurt just like
anybody else's.
He felt so different.
Rested. Awake. Calm. At ease.
He breathed in a deep yoga breath and exhaled.
He realized it was a semi-long delay to her
question, but he answered, "I'm okay, I think."
"Really?" she rhetorically asked as she raised
her eyebrow. "You just suffered a very mild heart attack.
You've been out for however long you were out there in
that park plus the two hours you've been in here."
He felt so good, he over-rided the first thing he
heard and looked at the clock behind the woman's head.
"Ten hours. Wow."
Wow. I just did simple math without thinking.
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What the hell is going on?
Did I really just sleep ten hours?
The record for Eric since he became an
insomniac was five hours. And that was with the sleeping
pills.
Of course that's not including the first time he
started using the pills. They used to knock him out for
almost half the day, especially when he purposely
overdosed.
But that was before his illness was so bad. And
since he could remember, it's been bad. His past when he
didn't have insomnia? Well.
Hard to remember the good times when there's
always negative feelings and things going on all around
you. Don't want to add depression on top of all of that.
Heart attack?
It just hit him.
"Heart attack?" he said, realizing he didn't
exclaim.
Noticing this man was taking a while to answer
her questions, she replied "Yes. A very mild one like I
said. But you're so young. Thirty or so, sir?"
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"Twenty-eight." He knew his illness made him
look older. Goddammit.
"No one should be having heart attacks at
twenty eight. Of course it was more self induced than
anything. Is there something you've been going through
that you did this on purpose? Or did you just start a new
workout program and didn't realize you got to take is
slow before you become like Lance Armstrong?"
He had been this route before.
No way was he going to let this fat bitch or any
other wacko wearing a white coat know that he had
insomnia.
Take this pill, try this medication, let me try to
prescribe you this new one.
Pills, pills, pills.
Fucking FDA. Why find a cure for something
when you can milk the general public for their cash for an
endless amount of time and fund the politicians that'll
make sure that keeps happening for them?
They don't care.
Oh, insomnia: take this pill.
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Pills if anything, made Eric's life worse off. It's
not a solution. And that’s the only solution any quack had
nowadays.
He had to lie. He didn't want to be stuck in this
smelly hospital any longer than he had to and have to
explain to three different doctors that he came to an
"unhealthy" last resort to try to get some fucking sleep.
Forget that.
"I guess I didn't read up on running like I
should've. I thought it would have given me a head start
if I started out hardcore."
The nurse looked at him for a second longer
than she realized she should've before replying, "Yeah,
no, you definitely don't want to do that if you want to be
a serious runner. Especially if you're just getting into the
sport, you have to start out very slow or else you could
seriously hurt your heart…" she smiled, "well, obviously."
"Guess I'll have to get some books on the
subject or something. I was just trying to get back into
shape."
He was surprising himself at how good he was
lying. He really was putting some effort into it. Usually,
he would lie with a slow drone voice that if one could tell
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that he was lying, he didn't care that they knew he was.
Very unconvincing.