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 things differently, to overcome inertia, to break with the sequence of agendas that have been filled like oversized bags, destined for tireless backs that exist only in fantasies where we imagine ourselves superhuman, perfect.

We must escape from it. We must refuse the absolute impossibility 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 piece in alexandrines.

Because this excellence is not the goal to be achieved. We want to run as we skip. With the enthusiasm of children who rush to their friends' houses after dinner, with the feeling of fleeing immobility to find refuge in the rhythm that we impose on ourselves.

Whether it's fast or extremely slow, it doesn't matter. Whether you're preparing for a competition by following a rigorous program or whether you're running the same short distance day after day, we don't care. Whether you're doing it to relieve stress, to get in shape, or for health reasons, it's up to you.

You run. We run. That's all that matters. That's what we share.

We have to run so that everything else stops moving in our heads, so that ideas find their place again, and finally so that they breathe as our lungs fill and empty, our legs absorb the shocks, our arms beat the air as if to pull us constantly forward.

You run for this. So do we. 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 beautiful. Because running, no matter how, is a victory over everything that conspires to stop us.

Faux Mouvement is a shop, a café. It is a meeting place, a rallying point. But above all, it is an idea, which sprang from minds that shared an interest in running because it fits ideally into our lives that lean, that bend our backs, that buckle under the load. We put on shoes, comfortable clothing. And we leave. Alone or accompanied. With or without music. Fast or slowly. With grace or by struggling with the emptiness around us.

In the end, we share the same fullness. An identical feeling. That of the sublime that is born in disorder, through the little moments of grace that provoke 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 is not magic, but it comes close.

We are a club without a name, without a code, without obligations. We have no leader.

We run. You run. That's enough to make you all part of it. In fact, we're not even a club. Just a name that you pronounce like that of a friend with whom you share the desire to go and see somewhere else to find yourself.