I sprint across plains of concrete with jagged, bare feet. My lungs murmur of depletion to brittle bones.
My pride is having none of that.
My veins are infused with the steady tattoo of drum beats. I race easily toward the storm on the horizon. A single smudge that swallows the entire sky in a vertical stripe bleached black. The world smells of vaguely of almonds, and skies taste pregnant with acid rain. Remembered sensations of transcendence, and fusing with both the universe, and a deity.
Here, years away-- at a canter-- I can't discern if I'm outrunning my shame, or hurtling toward blame. Is this discipline or contrition? Courage or cowardice? They all look the same as the background blurs by.
Wounding myself with every crushing footfall. Scrubbing my lungs raw. Aching in repentance for the indiscretion of every scrape and bruise wrought with my own carelessness.
10:41 p.m. - 2014-10-15
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