(no subject)
i havent written in quite a while. i have become discouraged. theres a story i want to tell. i tell it again and again.
theres this runner. he runs. he runs all the time. people consider him strange. they speak amongst themselves of the man who runs to and from places without ever stopping for so much as a hello or goodbye. they think it terribly rude and, hiding behind an arched eyebrow and haughty tone, they ask where on earth this runner could be headed in such a dreadful hurry. they ask themselves if he knows the foolish light his antics cast on him. they laugh at his muscular legs and tattered shoes. when theyve run out of topics and people for derision, they always return to the runner and their wishes for his poor footing. even the most humane among them secretly hopes for his exhaustion. they point and wonder what keeps him going and gather their strength to silently curse his furious pace. with weak final snickers they assault his seemingly limitless endurance before resting for the day. you may think terrible things of the people, if i didnt know the whole story i would think the same, but they are not terrible. they are the rich and poor and young and old and wise and simple. they are in fact diverse in all respects save the very fact that makes them footnotes in the runners story: their hatred and their laughter. the runner knows that they laugh and make hurtful jokes at his expense because of the emptiness his running leaves in its wake. the faster the runner moves the faster he moves from the stationary world of the people and the greater the loss felt in his passing. he knows, whether they do or not, that his hurry is indeed dreadful to them. he knows that pettiness and cruelty are the first things to fill his empty footsteps and that its only in his wake that they are petty and cruel. the runner doesnt hate the people. the runner hates his role in their lives. he envies their innocence. he bends forward against the wind, moving towards whatever end it is he bends himself to, and imagines the serpent wept as eve bit the apple. his own tears are fuel for his running and they are not shed for a paradise lost. paradise should have no gates to be expelled from. the runner laments the stillborn promise of a paradise free from movement. and he runs. faster and faster through crowds of people screaming for him to slow down. his frightening pace is the wind. his cacophonous footfalls are thunder. to stand in his path is to feel the inexorability of time. the runner is a force of nature. the runner is the movement. the runner is all of perception, of humanity: of history and nature and suddenly he reaches his destination. and the people are stunned and incredulous and ask how it was possible to have done such a thing. they ask how he could have reached his destination. they are frightened, and rightly so, because his destination marks what they fear most: it is the end of the story.
theres this runner. he runs. he runs all the time. people consider him strange. they speak amongst themselves of the man who runs to and from places without ever stopping for so much as a hello or goodbye. they think it terribly rude and, hiding behind an arched eyebrow and haughty tone, they ask where on earth this runner could be headed in such a dreadful hurry. they ask themselves if he knows the foolish light his antics cast on him. they laugh at his muscular legs and tattered shoes. when theyve run out of topics and people for derision, they always return to the runner and their wishes for his poor footing. even the most humane among them secretly hopes for his exhaustion. they point and wonder what keeps him going and gather their strength to silently curse his furious pace. with weak final snickers they assault his seemingly limitless endurance before resting for the day. you may think terrible things of the people, if i didnt know the whole story i would think the same, but they are not terrible. they are the rich and poor and young and old and wise and simple. they are in fact diverse in all respects save the very fact that makes them footnotes in the runners story: their hatred and their laughter. the runner knows that they laugh and make hurtful jokes at his expense because of the emptiness his running leaves in its wake. the faster the runner moves the faster he moves from the stationary world of the people and the greater the loss felt in his passing. he knows, whether they do or not, that his hurry is indeed dreadful to them. he knows that pettiness and cruelty are the first things to fill his empty footsteps and that its only in his wake that they are petty and cruel. the runner doesnt hate the people. the runner hates his role in their lives. he envies their innocence. he bends forward against the wind, moving towards whatever end it is he bends himself to, and imagines the serpent wept as eve bit the apple. his own tears are fuel for his running and they are not shed for a paradise lost. paradise should have no gates to be expelled from. the runner laments the stillborn promise of a paradise free from movement. and he runs. faster and faster through crowds of people screaming for him to slow down. his frightening pace is the wind. his cacophonous footfalls are thunder. to stand in his path is to feel the inexorability of time. the runner is a force of nature. the runner is the movement. the runner is all of perception, of humanity: of history and nature and suddenly he reaches his destination. and the people are stunned and incredulous and ask how it was possible to have done such a thing. they ask how he could have reached his destination. they are frightened, and rightly so, because his destination marks what they fear most: it is the end of the story.