Running.

  Sometimes I step back and kind of watch myself for a minute, and I see that what I am doing is not at all healthy.  This running thing.  I see it, but I sincerely am addicted.  You see, if I can run at a pace that is fast enough, I can actually “beat” my illness.  I can temporarily feel like I’m winning.  I can achieve things that have previously seemed impossible, and the gratification from that creates such a high, that I am not sure that I am willing to let go of. 

  Sometimes I even take pride in this ritual.  Well… often, I take pride in this ritual.  It is self destructive in one sense, and valuable in another.  I’m not sure how this all ends.  I don’t want it to end with me being counted out, and leaving a mess that I’ve created for those around me.  I’m pretty sure it ends with me being counted out though.

  I feel like in all of this madness there is this amazingly powerful denial.  I feel like I am doing my damndest to act as if I don’t know what’s coming.  But I know.  I see it happening.  I am *literally* falling apart.  I see the changes.  I do see them when I look, but I spend my time trying to look elsewhere. 

  I just want to live.  I want to live my life.  I want to buck all of the excuses, and I want to leave an impact on this world.  I want to better the lives of the generations that follow my time.  I want to influence you in a positive way.  I want to live to serve.  I want to live to love.  To better others, to bring peace. 

  The truth is.  I could just stop.  At any time.  I could just stop this running, and my body would be where it should be.  I should be resting.  I should be living simply.  According to these rules.  Sometimes I come so close to pulling the whole thing down and coming to a place of “acceptance”.  But is taking care of myself worth the investment, if I can no longer have any impact?  What am I preserving myself for after all?  Isn’t that what life is about?  Spending all you have?

  And then.  Then there’s that word.  That word that makes me feel like putting my fist through the wall, because I think it’s a total crock and really that it just hangs out to make us feel like we are always off kilter. 

Balance.

  A little of this, a little of that.  Slow and steady.  Balance.

  Here’s the deal.   The scale is tipped my friend.  I am internally created with a dysfunction that causes an extreme bias towards one side of the scale.  In order for me to achieve so called “balance”, I have to work two or three times as hard just to get to zero.  So ya… I’m running.  I’m running a mile a minute and exhausting everything I’ve got to tip the scale even slightly towards the other direction.  And I know from the outside it may look like some twisted game of self sabotage, and honestly, I suppose it is… but… I wasn’t put here to sit under the radar. 

  I will keep running until the weights that are currently creating pain and slowing my pace, become too heavy to bear.  And the whole time I’m running, I will be carrying a torch, and I will be starting a fire with every fucking step I take, because some day I will have to stand there and look back, and all I want to see are flames.    

 

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