Rolling

The gate fell open. Having forgotten what it felt like to wander, he stood there for a moment, not sure whether he should step through or wait for his breath to come back, his confidence to return. But then, just as suddenly as the gate fell open, he burst forward, surprising even himself. Before his mind could catch up with his body, he was running. The breath came in fast gasps and he coughed. He had to slow down. But he kept moving away from his previous confinement. Before him lay mountains of work undone, trips to take, dragons to meet, dilemmas to consider, quandaries to wade into. No matter. He was moving, finally, again. He had some time. Not much, but a moment or two at least. The air was crisp, the light sharp. There was a storm on the wind. That much he knew. It was time aim his intention and to marshal his agreements. The only obstacle in front of him was his fear, his self-inflicted limitation. He let the cool air of dawn fill his lungs, let the oxygen feed and fuel his brain, let his body re-ignite his sleeping desires. It was time, and movement was a luxury given only to the living.