When my heart is beating out of my chest, the only thing to do is match my steps to it.
I had given up running for a few years, having found addictions that worked quicker than myself.
But after a phone call yesterday when I was faced with utter frustration, all I had the wits to do was to throw on my trainers, grab my earphones and head out.
When running, we do not think about broken hearts.
We try to stomp it out one banger at a time. The music has too be loud enough to overpower my heavy breathing and ongoing traffic, loud enough to swallow my worries.
When running, we do not listen to the lump in our throats.
We keep lookout for wonders we would have missed otherwise. A father guiding his toddler to the water in the park, windows decorated with children’s drawings, a boy gently pushing back his lover’s hair.
I run faster yet.
When running, we do not check our phones to see if you’ve messaged back.
We are done measuring anything that’s not expressed in kilometers or miles. When our mind wanders to blurry friendship lines, we turn around and sprint away.
May our worries try catch up now.
When my eyes start burning in anticipation, I do not stop to ask how I feel.
I do not pity, judge or praise what comes next.
One earphone in, the other next. Left foot out the door, right foot on the street.
Is this sitting with my feelings? I doubt it. Am I running from them? I haven’t decided.
When my feet guide me back home, the first thing I do is rinse myself clean.
The water is cold against my still restless legs.
I pat myself dry, and sit down to eat.
Still can’t help wondering:
Do I feel better or just defeat?
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