life in boxes
It seems like every day is a doubting and then a convincing of whether I should be in Boston.
The doubting side has increasingly gained more fodder, especially after the sacrilege this city has committed - the utter murder of winter. I don't know how or why, but that season of purified death suffered a death of its own, one most unnatural and spirit-killing. And no one else seemed to notice, or mourn.
Will said recently that we were going to be in this place for four years. Now that strikes me, hard. Four years of a life severed. Four years not running - not truly, if at all - because pavement can never replace earth. I have ran and cried at the same time, driven angry and pathetic by the pounding pain of the hard cement, the miles of flat drudgery, the incessant, intolerable racket, and the epic fuckton of people, people, PEOPLE! I'd almost rather hang up my shoes than bear it, and instead dream of how slippery, muddy, and soft the hills of the golf course would be right now, or the damp, fresh breath of the forest with moist dirt and young grass underfoot. In fact I haven't run in months, and consequently feel my life slowly not becoming my own. I'm bottled up and made dull. This city, it is a cage.
I can't take the perpetual hardness under my soles anymore, or the solitude denied. Being an animist, I know life is in everything, but looking around here, my wet eyes often only see death.
The doubting side has increasingly gained more fodder, especially after the sacrilege this city has committed - the utter murder of winter. I don't know how or why, but that season of purified death suffered a death of its own, one most unnatural and spirit-killing. And no one else seemed to notice, or mourn.
Will said recently that we were going to be in this place for four years. Now that strikes me, hard. Four years of a life severed. Four years not running - not truly, if at all - because pavement can never replace earth. I have ran and cried at the same time, driven angry and pathetic by the pounding pain of the hard cement, the miles of flat drudgery, the incessant, intolerable racket, and the epic fuckton of people, people, PEOPLE! I'd almost rather hang up my shoes than bear it, and instead dream of how slippery, muddy, and soft the hills of the golf course would be right now, or the damp, fresh breath of the forest with moist dirt and young grass underfoot. In fact I haven't run in months, and consequently feel my life slowly not becoming my own. I'm bottled up and made dull. This city, it is a cage.
I can't take the perpetual hardness under my soles anymore, or the solitude denied. Being an animist, I know life is in everything, but looking around here, my wet eyes often only see death.