(no subject)
I run at night.
It's a habit born out of a time in my life that is best described as: "absurd."
And though the reason for my passion of racing through the twisted quasi-jungle of Florida has changed considerably, it is nonetheless a powerful method of introspection.
And it is through music tonight, that I found my pulse, my lungs, my legs and mind connected to the world at large. In what was probably only a handful of minutes, I gathered the thoughts and cuts and bruises and shiftless wandering of the last...lifetime...and arrived at something I've been leaning more and more towards.
The scars a person swears are upon on their heart are profoundly fickle. It is, for lack of better reference, the tattoo a foolish man gets upon his breast bearing the name of the lover who scorned him. We carry this baggage of pity and loathing for the shear sick pleasure of lamenting what has passed through our grasp.
Perhaps I should speak for myself.
Because the self-drawn scars and stitching are no longer there. And the sad-sack pity has been replaced by wonderment and a nagging sugar rush rendering me sleepless at the moment.
I run for the sake of running.
I run because I like to.
I run because I need to.
And I run because of nights like this.
Nights full of ramshackle hope and delirious romanticism felt through the soft one-two of steps on inky pavement. Nights that I sing along to sad-happy songs with a voice shaking from stride and effort; and where I race face first into the cool breath of dark.
I run at night and maybe you should too.
It's a habit born out of a time in my life that is best described as: "absurd."
And though the reason for my passion of racing through the twisted quasi-jungle of Florida has changed considerably, it is nonetheless a powerful method of introspection.
And it is through music tonight, that I found my pulse, my lungs, my legs and mind connected to the world at large. In what was probably only a handful of minutes, I gathered the thoughts and cuts and bruises and shiftless wandering of the last...lifetime...and arrived at something I've been leaning more and more towards.
The scars a person swears are upon on their heart are profoundly fickle. It is, for lack of better reference, the tattoo a foolish man gets upon his breast bearing the name of the lover who scorned him. We carry this baggage of pity and loathing for the shear sick pleasure of lamenting what has passed through our grasp.
Perhaps I should speak for myself.
Because the self-drawn scars and stitching are no longer there. And the sad-sack pity has been replaced by wonderment and a nagging sugar rush rendering me sleepless at the moment.
I run for the sake of running.
I run because I like to.
I run because I need to.
And I run because of nights like this.
Nights full of ramshackle hope and delirious romanticism felt through the soft one-two of steps on inky pavement. Nights that I sing along to sad-happy songs with a voice shaking from stride and effort; and where I race face first into the cool breath of dark.
I run at night and maybe you should too.