they want to see you do your best
I felt compulsive even thought I know I’m not. I wanted to run because I knew I could be free, and alone. Everything was so loud; silence was killed the second I had a goal formed in my mind, and in my feet that fell onto the pavement because I knew no one was around to hear my screaming faults. My thoughts were faster than my feet and came thundering from behind only to surpass me and taunt my endurance with the goal of their memory. There were no moments, just a streak of time measured by the countless thoughts sweat out over my entire body. A clock wanted there to be minutes, something tangible to bring me back to reality, and would chime with an interruption of my heavy breathing, in rhythm with my pounding feet, only to become so deafening that it disappeared. All I wanted to do was keep running, running while laying down on a bench and etching every single thought into the pitch-sable sky, my handwriting made of the dimmest stars, because anything too bright would blind this emotion so longed for and so missed.
The park was dimly lit, the mass buried deep in the darkness where the beauty shone brightest. The lamps were fatally placed so that the borders of the broad showers of light left me in such a stretch of darkness that I forgot everything between the moons. When the bulbs would burn behind me, I could see my shadowy figure in so much detail that it sickened me. I quickened my pace for the shadows again. I passed by an old couple, again, and again, and every time, I closed my mouth to quiet my breathing and tried to lighten my steps in hopes of preventing them from forming any thoughts about my darkened image.
And at the end I started running so fast, almost out of control, because I knew that what I had set out to do was almost accomplished.
Sitting on the curb made me feel like all of that almost mattered, would make a difference, even though I know the only difference was the perfect storm.
I welcomed the screaming music earnestly, like a mental breakdown where tears spell out lyrics that spill down mottled cheeks until the eyes are as dry as the throat.
And I didn’t want to drink any water, didn’t want to wipe off any of the sweat, because I thought cleansing this soiled reality might hear the last echo of the thundering cymbals.
And undressed, there is still unhappiness.
This emotion, so longed for and so missed.
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Jimmy is getting transferred.