Imperfect and magnificent

Our lives are all crooked. They lean towards excess or lack. Too many obligations. Not enough free time. We dig inside ourselves to find the motivation to do otherwise, to overcome inertia, to break the sequence of agendas that have been filled like oversized bags, intended for tireless backs that only exist in fantasies where we imagine ourselves superhuman, perfect.
We must escape from it. We must refuse the absolute impossible of productivity.
So we run. So you run.
Not always perfectly. Never like those athletes whose stride is a poem. Every inch of their feet touching the ground, with every step, with the regularity of a Alexandrine room.
Because this excellence is not the objective to be achieved. We want to run as we frolic. With the enthusiasm of children who rush to their friends after dinner, with the feeling of fleeing immobility to find refuge in the rhythm that one imposes on oneself.
Whether it's fast or extremely slow, it doesn't matter. Whether you're preparing for a competition with a rigorous schedule or running the same short distance day in and day out, we don't care. Whether you do it to relieve stress, to get back in shape, for reasons related to your health, it's up to you.
You run. We run. It's all that matters. This is what we share.
We have to run so that everything else stops moving in our heads, that ideas find their place, and finally that they breathe as our lungs fill and empty, that our legs take the shocks, that our arms beating the air as if to pull us incessantly forward.
You run for it. U.S. too. So it's time to come together. To share the true meaning of sport, to commune at the altar of our disappointments and successes, to celebrate our difference in the imperfection of movements that are sometimes uncertain, clumsy, and yet superb. Because running, no matter how, is a victory over anything that conspires to stop us from doing so.
Faux Mouvement is a shop, a cafe. It is a meeting place, a rallying point. But it is above all an idea, which sprang up in minds who shared an interest in running because it fits ideally into our lives which lean, which bow our backs, which bow under the load. We put on shoes, a comfortable piece of clothing. And we leave. Alone or accompanied. With or without music. Quickly or slowly. With grace or by fencing with the emptiness around you.
In the end, we share the same wholeness. An identical feeling. That of the sublime which is born in disorder, over the small moments of grace caused by the influx of dopamine and endorphins. The rhythm that we impose on ourselves puts our heads in order, relieves our souls as much as our bodies. It's not magic, but it comes close.
We are a club with no name, no code, no obligations. We don't have a leader.
We run. You run. This is enough for you to be all part of it. In fact, we are not even a club. Only a name that we pronounce like that of a friend with whom we share the desire to look elsewhere to find our way around.