I did not want to go running at 7:30, but I forced myself to do so. It’s always a matter of should I write or run? Today, I opted for running. At least when I run, I feel as though I am accomplishing a certain level of health.
Lately, I have not been feeling good about my writing. For every ten pages I type, maybe one paragraph is adequate. I think, I am hard on my writing because the world is hard on my writing.
Another story I tell myself has to do with stories themselves: I don’t know which ones are important anymore or which ones are important to me anymore. All my stories feel like lies— what I tell myself to explain myself or know myself, but really I don’t know anything.
The real stories I want to tell are untellable because they are nonsensical or uncatchable— lost in an everlasting wave of particles— a light crashing around me.
Thankfully, when I run, I don’t think about this crashing.
I am happy just to have my breath.
I am happy just to dream of breakfast.
I am happy just to consider emails I should draft.
This morning, as my feet slapped against the pavement, my lungs found a familiar rhythm. On the track ahead of me, I saw a homeless woman on a bench. I ran towards her, maintaining my course. As I got closer, I noticed a cardboard sign attached to her luggage. In heavy black marker it said: Put yourself in front of eyes that can see you.
Revising Loneliness 