I’m going away for a couple of weeks but it’s no holiday. I’m going away to seek asylum from the war in my head. To find stillness, to yield the loneliness, bend the anxiety, manipulate the madness.
I’m escaping to arctic winds to remind myself that I am alive. I’m going away to seek the visible breath as proof that I am warm on the inside.
I’m going away for a couple of weeks but it’s no holiday. I have this incurable illness of restlessness, a pre existing condition of being alive. I’m running from the punishment of perpetual consciousness to entertain ideas of unrealistic virtues of an eternal hedonism.
I’m escaping to find beauty in the ugliness, find a fraction of joy in the bitterness, peace in the chaos, existence in the loneliness. To take my fractured sense of self, put that black dress on and contemplate death under the pale moonlight.
I love running. I am able to put my masochistic tendencies to good use. It is here that I can push my body to its absolute limit. I love the feeling of my heart pounding in my chest and the fluttering of my lungs with every step. It feels like a war zone, but the chaos is controlled, it exists inside of me, I have complete power over it. The feeling of going further, faster, another mile, another hill. I love the feeling of my entire body aching and every capillary and vein and artery screaming at me to slow down, to stop, but somewhere else, deeper, past all of the muscles and tendons and ligaments and bones, there’s a certain urgency to continue, to speed up, to push even harder. And when I catch the brilliance of the setting sun’s rays in my eyes I feel like I am on fire, burning up, ablaze. Running outside in the evening is to me one of the most beautiful things a person can do.