Press

I can feel the press press push of the oceans surrounding me. I am a landmass pressed upwards by a volcano erupting in my depths, except it is a slow eruption, building up layers upon layers of lava that pressurized and pushed the little island that is me upwards and upwards and upwards. I am an island, this man is an island except i am a man no more.

I miss running. The freedom might be superficial but it is still freedom. In those few fleeting moments when there is acid burning in your veins powering you on, when you thought that you couldn’t run any more but you ran anyway, when your legs seem to move like some otherworldly steam engine is powering them through a dimensional gateway; all links to your pain receptors removed, when your lungs are beyond bursting point, bursting point is a dream. You can go on, but you are afraid that your body will collapse without your knowledge.

In those fleeting moments you live, and you are introduced to something called exhilaration. The Runner’s High.

Mount Beach is lazy with sunset. Kids, mothers, touch rugby players flash past like you are watching some dream sequence in a movie. All you can see is that boat you are aiming for banked on the beach. Like some beast trapped from the smooth mobility that the waters offer, so close yet so far. Your feet hardly touch the ground. You hardly feel the sand. Your face is screwed up probably. Your eyes like a madman’s. Rushing, fuzz, fizz, swoosh.

I need release. I am not built for confinement, I am only miserable in confinement. Man must roam free. Physically, intellectually, emotionally. He  must roam free so that his internal compass can align to that which his soul naturally knows it belongs to. Yet i am afraid. Petty fears plague. I know they  are petty but i know that pettiness creates dependencies. Or dependencies are based on pettiness. I am not being coherent any longer.

Running is about goals, about sacrifice about giving up for beliefs. Its about shrugging off the friction that life gives you with its insignificant distractions, running is about freeing your soul so that it can race home. race to its end, to its beginning. Running. I want to run to my death.

Someone wise said that a poem is never finished, it is only abandoned. This may not be a poem but it feels like one. and even though i could go on. I will abandon this here.

Or wait, i must tell you about the shot. The shot that goes off in your head. A bullet in your brain. You shoot and you are off. The start. The point. The beginning. The initiation of the run. And that my friend, must come from your own will. Your coherent mind must release you into incoherence. Your being must release your soul. And that is where the shot comes in. Ok i’m done.

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4 comments
  1. Jerry said:

    Hey, I have a monopoly on the “island” thing. Stay off my turf yo!
    😛

    • Whacko said:

      sorry, can i see your patent?

  2. Bambi! 😛

    What would be bleak is discovering that you have have no escape… Every direction you head in leads to a cul de sac. Feeling trapped is merely the delusion of hope.

    • Whacko said:

      But this is avoided if you run in open spaces like the beach. And there is a way around every cul de sac

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