My mind moves too fast, and I know I have to keep up with it.
Blood rushes to my ears, and a lion roars its upsets and pleasures, and what am I supposed to do when every part of me requires action? Stay still? How, when every fiber of my being is excited to the point of ignition – atoms ready to burst into flames?
I pool movement into my limbs. Legs feel lighter. Feet skirt above shadows cast by the trees I run past. Sometimes I cry on my runs. Sometimes I laugh and dance. Sometimes I run because passions reign far too strongly inside me. And other times, I run to fill the hollow space of no emotion.
When I was fifteen, running away became an addiction – a cure for my teenage angst. It was the only time I ever heard real silence. Yet still, at eighteen, I started to fall in love with the sound of footsteps. Rapid, quick, and sure. I was lost, I admit, but not as lost as I had once been. Forging ahead with beat up sneakers had a way of figuring out who I was. At nineteen, after feeling as though my life was just momentarily aligned (a cute boy, a good grade, a confident smile)… I yelped with joy and ran two miles completely barefoot.
For the good and bad, I never knew that running away would turn into this. I don’t run away anymore. I just run.
The best part is the way that my shoes now scrape off words from the concrete beneath my feet. Organize. That’s what happens. When I run, my thoughts - those deafening, booming, thundering thoughts – become stories…characters…ideas.
I find mine in miles.
Wrote this for a writing blog I keep with some friends. I figured it fits this blog too.