The destination is always changing.

First it’s a lamppost, then it’s a tree, then it’s the milkman who stands by his cycle. There are no sounds at that time of the day. Not even birds, or crickets or whatever else people assume can be heard in the wee morning hours. There’s only the sound of my wheezing breath; like that of a dying person. When I hold my breath, I can hear my feet hitting the ground in a clumsy fashion.

Pat and Pat and Pat.

I count backwards from hundred, then from two hundred and then from five hundred. I try singing songs in my head, like a mental radio. I sound horrible even in the privacy of my mind where there is no audience. I try shutting my eyes because perhaps the dark endless road will create some kind of an illusion and motivate me into moving further down.

In the end, we make it. The wheezing doesn’t go away for a while. It walks back with me, like a critical friend, make silent remarks on my lack of fitness.