but on the Pavements of your own discipline.
On the morning of May 18, 2025, I ran 10.5 kilometers solo across Dhaka. It was a route I named "Senapoth," passing through bustling streets, military zones, and narrow urban corridors. I set out at 6:16 AM and reached my destination—college—at 7:32 AM. I wasn’t just running for sport. I was running to prove something special to myself.
The run was more than physical. It was a test of presence, courage, and spiritual alignment. I carried a backpack weighing around 2 to 3 kilograms. Along the way, I faced seven obstacles: vehicles, crowds, and confusing crossings. I took three breaks—all involuntary; for my shoelaces being untied thrice. At Kalshi, even a military traffic officer had to blow his whistle to compel me to stop and tie them up. Until then, I kept running with them open, aware but undeterred.
Three dogs barked and gave chase. I sprinted, not in fear, but with the mindset of survival. Around the final stretch, a flood of energy surged through my arms, forearms, and chest. It was that mythic Runner’s High. I felt faint, dizzy, detached. But I kept pushing and moving forward, not doing anything stupid; just like how Clementine commanded Javier from The Walking Dead Telltale Series S3-E1. No music. No partner. No audience. Only Allah was watching and I continuously remembering Him as dhikr.
I finished that 76-minute journey with breaks totaling barely a minute. And once I arrived at college, something miraculous happened: my body felt charged. There was no lingering exhaustion. Just radiant focus and liveliness throughout the entire college session. It felt like a divine reward.
Today, 17 days before my 18th birthday, I earned a new name (entitlement) in my own eyes of perception: Marathonic.
Not because I ran a formal solo-marathon, but because I unlocked a spirit that felt worthy of the title. A spirit of endurance, of rebellion against comfort, of soulful clarity in motion.
I’ll never forget the strangers who reminded me about my shoelaces, the barking dogs, or the whistling officer. They became part of the story. Allah is my Witness.
My nerves were buzzing — arms, hands, torso. I wasn’t just running anymore — I was ascending, spiritually and mentally. Every second screamed fatigue, but I answered with fire.
The thought that I was doing this just 18 days before turning 18 added a strange poetic chill to the whole experience. A moment of pre-adulthood glory. A gift to myself. A living statement:
I am Beasonic. I am Marathonic.
By Allah’s will, I proved that title today.
And here’s the cherry on top: My college hours weren’t sluggish or worn down. They passed with cheerful energy, as if the run had charged me up, not drained me.
After the run, I nourished myself with milk-water and a few dates — the Prophet’s (ﷺ) legacy lived in my post-run ritual.
In a conclusion, this wasn’t just a physical challenge.
It was mental, spiritual and legendary.
And at the end of the day, Allah is my clear witness.
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