Summer Run
“Suicide, it’s a suicide, I’m just talking to the world like it’s you and I”
Pusha growls at me through my earbuds. I can’t hear my footfall but I can feel it. My steps are weak, bordering on shuffling. I should push myself more but then I’d stop, and of course that’s exactly what I want. To stop, to find comfort in the idea that I did my best and deserve rest now. My best has always been elusive, at this point they should frame my best effort up there with blurry photos of Nessy and Bigfoot. I can’t decide whether the thought to run harder is genuine or self sabotage so I keep my shuffling pace. It’s slow, but it’s getting the job done. Push is still egging me on.
He’s a favorite of mine among the self proclaimed Kings of Rap. I feel authenticity, (I laugh as I write that because what would I know of authentic dope boy life) even from the fringes I hear his grunt and I believe him. He pushed the bricks, he chopped them up, he hid the cash, he whipped it up (Whipped what? I assume it’s something to do with making crack,I should google it). He is tested, tried by fire, he overcame and I… I survived. I hear the dope boy talk and it raises something in me, the want for power, the drive to do it all, the push to fall and get back up again.
Yet here I am, miles away from the fires that I was initially forged from. Here there is a mental struggle, true; I stare a deep loneliness down and fight against it daily. But back home where my family is, where my youngest nephew is growing without me, where they put Norma in the ground and I wasn’t there to kiss her lips one last time; there is real danger and fear there and I can’t help but wonder if it’s cowardice that has made me choose this struggle over that one. Dead space between songs and I can hear my footfall, my lungs feel open for the first time in forever maybe keeping pace was a good idea.
I’ve never been good at keeping pace. Rush headlong into something until it sticks or falls apart, that’s my m.o and it has kind of worked this far. While I doubt it often when decision time comes it’s the method I fall back on. I love it at times, I feel like the universe has picked me and the greatness is a wave I will ride when it comes, I ride these smaller ones now in preparation. I hate it at times, my refusal to grab things by the horns and be more aggressive or dedicated is poison that has made me rot. I am wasted away, the future will be as now is, look at yourself you failure. I’m almost home, this time wasn’t too bad, first time I hit the zone and felt my lungs open up since Hawaii.
Oh Hawaii, my half year of misadventure [sic] stagnancy [sic] being a burden on family members who without complaint (that I know of) housed and fed me. My much needed journey in soul searching, self care and reconnecting with people who loved me. People who I used? People who enjoyed having the company? I can’t settle on one outlook or the other. Either way it was two years ago and somehow feels like a lifetime has passed. Next week without ceremony I’ll mark one year back in Japan. I wonder how I have done? In Hawaii when I decided to return to this cushiony maze of a country my head was filled with ideas of progress: run more, write more, eat healthier, keep in touch with family… consistently. I’ve never been good at keeping pace. Almost home I’ll sprint to the next corner, it’s closer than I think I should start running now.
I don’t make it to the corner. I quit, no surprise. I can’t tell if stopping was justified or not. One voice reassures, “You did good today, don’t overdo”, the other chides “You didn’t pass out, you could have kept going”. I let them hash that out among themselves and turn my thoughts to what I have to do when I get home. The run was good tonight, but would I eat some greasy crap and undo it all? This tragic comedy of attempts at self care that are soon abandoned then revisited after varying lengths of time. Same for eating healthy, same for building better relationships, same for writing, same for producing media. I fear that trying is all I will ever do. I’m home now, the run was good, I feel good… there’s no witty retort as to why I shouldn’t.
I’ve never been good at keeping pace, but I am excellent at change. Maybe ‘never’ can be changed too.
