The Signpost
I had to ice a spot on the interior of my upper right calf. I am looking at the diagrams and descriptions of muscles and trying to figure out the name of the knotty one. Deep transverse fascia? Whatever. I overdid it last night.
But running on a whim in the moonlight, zig-zagging across the highway offramp, darting through some random fields, was worth it. It was worth in a way that jogging around during the daytime, or [losing at] a game of basketball would not be. It was refreshing, but that's not it.
I wish it weren't 3:30AM right now. But, it's always like that. It creeps up on me when I'm trapped, when I know I'm already losing sleep and have things to do. Part of me, or more precisely, part of my imagination wants to scream, wants to smash this keyboard on the tabletop in frustration, and perhaps smash my forehead against the nearby window pane, again and again. I am not exaggerating. These are not activities suitable for any time of day.
Running on the side of the side of the road was an expression of anger and desperation. On one side, the headlights of cars heading for the main highway. On the other, the shapes of trees atop the small grassy ridge, black against a sky glowing a dim, cool blue. I was walking when I sighted a road sign in the distance. Something--inside my chest, in normally idle muscles of my legs, in the mess of my head, I don't know where it was, but it broke loose. And all of a sudden I was sprinting straight for that road sign. For no reason, but with all purpose: from the blistering balls of my feet to the tar-filled recesses of my gasping lungs.
Those 60 meters or so: it was me, screaming as loudly as I could, in the only way I really knew how.
I didn't make it to the sign. I ran out of breath. My legs slowed on their own. I felt how weak so many muscles in my body have grown through years of idleness. I felt how more than three years of heavy smoking had left my breath shriveled. I felt the single, huge, tense knot my shoulders and upper back have become. I could almost feel every weak point, every spot of tension and inflexibility in my body. They actually ached now.
I don't know if I should talk about the rest of this small hike. It was interesting for me, but I understand that most of the things I'm interested in no one gives a shit about. Did I try to run again? Yes, yes I did. I ran through grass and down an offramp, and through some random field. What about the sight of the high voltage tower against the setting sun? It was black, it was immense, it looked sad, it reminded me a little of a giraffe. I don't know.
Even the episode I just described is kind of stupid.
You were only running past Bristol Myers Squibb on Scudders Mill Road, He would say to me.
What was important about it, then? Why can I even write about it?
I can write about it because it was an expression of anger.
I'm thinking about it, and the rest of it is not all that important to talk about anyway. It's not what I'm driven to express. I'm here, nearly an hour later, still plugging away feebly at this post.
If I had been trying to tell everyone about "how fun my nice day was" or to tell people "here's this fun adventure I had", I'd have given up by now. I'd have gone to bed. There would have been no such need to keep talking until I felt I'd said everything. At least, the desire to express those kinds of things are dim, compared to the formless, faceless rage that lurks in the crevices of my head.
I want to be able to talk, on a regular basis, about better things. But I'm ready to admit that I might not ready. Maybe there are other kinds of words I need to get out first, bleed out, if necessary.
