is what I do when I gotta get away. Gotta escape from my skin. It thumps real hard against my chest and claws at my legs. I punch my toes against the pavement, pump my arms in the air, and I bolt fast and hard.
Sometimes, I just gotta get away. Can’t really explain what I’m running from. Maybe it’s the preposition I shouldn’t finish my sentence with. Oops. There I go again.
Running releases the mistakes I made. The worries that build inside me and scream to break free. The fears disappear. For a while, anything feels possible. Until I slow to a walk at the end of my street, and life reminds me that it’s there, waiting. On some days, I think I can handle it. But let’s be honest – I don’t.
Running is the only time my breaths for air catch up to the frantic beating of my heart. Then, I don’t feel like I’m gonna explode. I hate feeling that way. I wish I could be all calm and zen, like one of those Buddhist monks. They make happiness look easy.
I wish I could run for a thousand years, but where would I run to? The loop around my neighborhood gets old after a while. I need a challenge, something that will change it all up – or not. Change is hard to make a permanent condition. I think that’s why we fight it sometimes. Or we run from it. Because we can’t always makes everything stay the same.
I’ve run to change before, too. When that pent-up feeling gets to be too much, and I have to make a choice – stand still and shrivel, or leap forward and sprint to the next place, the next state of mind I’m seeking as a friend. Don’t know for sure if something will be there, but I won’t find out unless I run.