We race through life in the same manner one would toil through a triathlon. We swim through our early years, trying to master our technique, bike through the middle it with sweat on our brows and finally race towards the finish line and the sweet relief it should promise. But what is it that gives us the strength to do so?
Are we motivating ourselves, looking towards the memories of a journey filled with images of success, or do we have helping hands to urge us forward?
I think the answer to that is much more complex and unfortunately also deeply darker. We might be the self-empowering type, or have the support of family and friends, but that’s rarely the entire picture. On one hand we have all the corrupting factors that well from with us and the ones close to us:
Isn’t the sustenance of our ego often paramount to our existence?
On the other hand, we often forget the ones who hold the whip. The shadows in the dark who play the low but steady rhythm to our lives on the drums they have grafted from our inner most fears.
We don’t swim carelessly when we start our race, we do so with bulging eyes and tortured gasps for breath; for the “bravo” of our parents and the forced smile of our teachers. We don’t bike through the best years of our lives with a fierce focus on the next challenge; we run from the fiery inferno that’s on our heels, the flaming tongues of mouths to feed, the gaunt hands of bills to pay.
By the time we reach the final challenge, we have nothing to look behind at that would makes turn around and yearn to start from the beginning. We look at that unbending finish line that will separate us from the mortal disease we came to call life.
All I have to ask is: Who signed us up for this triathlon in the first place?