jogging at night

 As my feet pounded the dark bitumen that was our running track, I stared up at the solemn dark sky (｀∇´)

As I stared into the black that was our stratosphere, my brother panted beside me. Every so often he would manage a phrase of embittered complaint, but for the most part we made pleasant conversation.

We were jogging at a conversational pace, that is, not too quickly. Despite this languid speed, the shin of my right leg hurt. I felt the bone ache as it jolted against the pavement, every step an impact reverbrating through. 

Ow, I thought.

Now that I am back home, I've had time to reflect on the night's affairs. And most importantly, my writing. Did you notice the subtle change in style?

The truth is that I've been reading a new book, Helgoland by Carlo Rovelli. It discusses the new field that is quantum physics, including its birth, its many intepretations and (hopefully) its applications in the real world. I am currently on the last part of the intepretation section, and since I severely hate spoilers, I know nothing of the upcoming chapters.

Reading about how people tried desperately to make sense of quantum entanglement, psi waves and quantum superposition, I was quite amazed. I know not whether it was because of the content or the writer's elegant prose. 

Actually, I now know that it was because of his style, that effortless flair he had whenever his hands danced across the keyboard. This is because I've already heard about quantum entanglement, psi waves and quantum superposition. It was the same old thing for me, really. But it was the way he said it with such sophisticated reverence that drew me in. Drew all of us in.

I found that same essence in the night sky. How it was dark and we knew not what laid in its depths, yet we ventured anyway. We yearned for more. It was an exciting, enchanting feeling. 

I liked it.