"run"
i wrote this.
the runner's breath escapes him but he doesn't hear it, lost in the roar of the crowd he's long forgotten.
he's standing still, no, that's not true. he's moving vertically, but not horizontally. in the same place.
how is it possible for a human being to sweat so much? it is an arduous task to lift an arm to his forehead and drag it across, and he notices himself thinking about sweat getting on his velcro watch band, and notices his noticing. so, this is what your mind has resolved to consuming itself with. fantastic.
the surrounding world is re-introduced into his periphery by the breeze blowing over him, dragging reality behind it like a child's doll. still breathing in gasps. his palm against his knee, holding his body upright. hunched over, he looks at the ground and thinks.
around me. next to me.
a row of athletes left and right, stretching. pulling their legs, arms, learning backwards, bowing forwards. the runner barely notices them. his muscles are regaining consciousness, and, still hunched, he even manages to flex his knees a little. but his brain is numb, senses empty, no longer registering the sounds or sights or feelings. breathes in and out. forces himself to remember what he's doing there.
about to start running again. a pang of regret, sadness, lays a finger on his heart for a moment, and is gone. i don't remember that? i have to run. straightens up. looks himself over. his clothes, shoes, legs, covered in dirt. have i really gotten so dirty in all this time? how long has it been - eight years? eighty? doesn't matter much, i guess.
he remembers when he used to feel angry, after he fell. and sadness, bitter sorrow, he reminisces. i remember that phase. like an old book he read long ago. feelings that he had abandoned - or had abandoned him. now, sluggish, he doesn't feel that much anymore. emotion screaming from within a prison of time and failure.
deep breath. the others are beginning to kneel. he's not ready, but he rarely ever is. dark-clothed official, down at the edge of the track, calls out. "runners take your mark..."
the runner chuckles, a hollow, weak, bitter laugh. can't remember the last time he thought something was funny. remembers the fury he'd felt at the official, standing there, every time, refusing to help. remembers the day he gave up that anger. it's all past now, and the runner is so old.
he starts his own crouch. eyes float down to the ground, a spot he has stared at for ages. like a friend. wide, dark, ageless brick-colored, pock-marked and staggered with white chalk, thick and dry. white but not too white. it should be whiter than it is.
stares at the ground, knowing what's coming. it always surprises him and it never changes. something has picked him up every time. less a puppet, more an actor. he used to tell himself that he couldn't bear it again, and there's that chuckle again. you'll bear it, you have for so long, and you will again, because it won't ever change. this is who you are, what you do.
he feels the strength in his arms, his legs, his feet. feels himself ready. such a contrast. he is bent, tense, ready to go. this is his courage. ready.
"get set."
he isn't ready. in his head. screams, please! no more! SCREAMS. there is rage and pain, frustration. a small leak, a few drops of water from a hole in a huge wall. the voice inside is tiny against the dull roar of static, silence. numb. it doesn't matter.
was that his name? did someone in the crowd call to him? got to be your imagination.
vision shifts left-to-right, rolling, glancing at his competition. they have keen eyes, no sweat. some have grins, madness, some are excited, happy, some are solemn and ready. they're all better than he is. obviously. crouched in a position identical to his own. eyes move out in front of him, to the track. a curiousity - what does it look like, further down? like a child, he's always wondered, always dreamed.
sigh. breathes in and out. now it comes. towering above them, the official, arm raised as if to strike a blow, holds the gun. squeezes. the bang of the shot loud enough to jar him from numbness right before...
and the runner feels the muscles fail, first his ankles, then wrists, forearms, back, legs. as if the bullet flew through him, and his strength drained in an instant through the hole. eyes close as he sinks to the ground. legs and arms fold. the thud, sickening as his head crashes to the ground, a pile of useless limbs and his spirit.
thump-thump-thump-thump as the others run. quieter and quieter, his ear on the ground, until they are too far away to hear anymore. the runner lays at the starting line, broken, defeated. a sad, quiet whimper, pitiful. only his breathing registers in his heart now. and the feelings pour out of him, the wall explodes. teeth clenches, eyes crushed shut, invisible scream welling up in his heart. sorrow, despair, the anguish crushing him from above, a shadow. wants to hide, wants to crawl away but he can't, doesn't want to be seen, but he is laid bare on the rough, warm track. he wraps his arms around his knees, lying on his side, rolls feebly, his heart sobbing.
calms slowly, the wall rebuilt in his heart, hiding the futile rage and desperate sadness he has known a thousand times in a thousand measures.
lays there for - who knows. weakly, rolls his head towards the stands, towards the official. blank faces looking on, higher than he can see. the track warm on his shoulders, on his legs, twists himself around, lying on his back. eyes scan the crowd. no one. wait. someone? a face, glance possibly at him? who would know?
doesn't matter. elbow on the ground, turns himself over, facedown. palms on the ground, against the chalk, pushes himself up. knees scrape against the ground. moves one up, gets a foot flat, hand on the knee. pushes himself up again. not moving horizontally, but vertically. slowly. one muscle at a time, as the next set of runners gathers around him, walking confidently in the midday sun that never subsides. forming a line around him. looking at each other, talking idly, taking deep breaths. ignoring him. they always do. the runner straightens, urges his heart back into position. the official turns towards them, and raises his arm again.
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