Monday, June 14, 2010

I just sprinted one mile around my block. I ran as fast as I could. I was listening to my iPod but half of the time I didn’t know what I was listening to. I just ran. I ran and I ran and I ran.
I thought about running away. I thought about how far I could get if I just kept running, if I didn’t stop, if I just kept running away, away, away, just leave myself at my doorstep where I started and go somewhere, without anything but the music that dissipated each time my feet pounded against the pavement. 
I would run through the woods after I made it to a certain point around the circle I live on. I would duck under low hanging branches and leap over pits in the ground, glide in between trees and look up at the moon every so often to see where I was.
I wasn’t really thinking about anything when I ran. I was releasing things, subconsciously, letting little things escape through my open pores. 
I wish I could run away. I have so much to live for and I know it. But I want to know how it would feel to have no where to go, to have no one to be, to merely exist on air and the sound of my pulse alone. 
I would come back eventually, I’ve decided, because I have a lot here waiting for me. But I like to imagine who I would be if I didn’t. 

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