Last Year’s Conundrum
Unscrambling scribes out of a journal
My anterior pelvic tilt causes me to feel like a degenerate mess. Who would’ve known that my teachers were right all along. When they told me to sit up straight, I didn’t listen.
I slouched and fell asleep at my desk because learning bored me. Quitting was my resolution. Now I pay for my poor decisions by trying to reverse the actions I shouldn’t have made.
Completing my personal goals became more important than maintaining a steady income. I had boxes to check off and nobody could help me in the process. The responsibility of broadening my journey was up to me.
Leaving a legacy wasn’t my purpose. Knowing that I tried to find happiness in my own way stood out more. Running is one avenue I used to regain my lost innocence.
I never thought that I would’ve been running up hills or jogging down streets. I couldn’t picture those possibilities in a million years. Getting through college semesters intimidated me more then. When I sat down with my notebook or laptop, I wanted to learn and escape.
Through consistent training, I found another hobby that served to heal the wounds and scars left from my childhood. I used to think that running until I released my last breath was powerful.
In the process of defying commonalities, I discovered my greatest traits. I wallowed in the discomfort of dissatisfaction. Many people don’t find pleasure in hurt.
When I endured a late-night jog, I questioned myself. The experience was not enough. I thought I could run more miles. Other times, I felt like I was too slow or procrastinated sprints.
Instead of appreciating my efforts, I found an excuse to feel like I could’ve done better. Running for a mile alone was a hardship I could barely pull through when I was out of shape. The inevitable chase of supremacy left my mind centered on accomplishing tasks I wasn’t ready for.
There was dirt everywhere. Mud stuck to my running shoes. Each step I took dug into the shoe soles. I left toe prints on them from the pressure of my feet. As I slammed my legs into the concrete, I expected zero consequences.
When I think about it, stomping on the ground wasn’t the brightest of ideas. They had enough of my negligence. Running damaged me internally and externally. Each step I took towards fulfilling my desires led me to a pothole.
Desires to show I work hard. Desires to be better than who I was yesterday. Desires to prove my childhood bullies wrong. Desires that didn’t mean much.
The path has always been narrowing and uncomfortable. Many people didn’t travel down my stretch of dirt. My surroundings confined me.
Dealing with the anxiousness of providing results and a greater future made me panic. Sweat soaked my clothes. The process was like an everlasting nightmare.
I’ve gripped and lifted dumbbells to gain muscles I didn’t need. I fought lingering demons with my fists. Even if it left me with cuts or bruises, I had to pound away the anger with boxing gloves. I repeatedly hurt myself to deflect the issues I had inside. The thoughts that continually attacked me.
When my knees hurt and dismantled, I continued pushing. I chose to damage myself more to not feel like a quitter. Instead of protecting myself, I accepted defeat by not admitting that I was in the wrong mind frame to finish running.
Nothing I felt was clear. A safe neighborhood and warm blankets made me feel like all my problems would disappear. Eventually, I woke up and faced the reality I avoided. There were a ton of bricks on me. They weighed me down before I took a step.
Touching the floor made me believe I climbed Mount Everest. My legs cried, and I agonized. The pain was unbearable, I could barely walk up or down stairs. Moving around my home was almost impossible.
All I wanted to do was sleep, eat, and watch Breaking Bad. Watching someone’s self-destruction and demise made my torture a bit comforting.
Constantly elevating my knees and icing them was bothersome. I was in a mental prison wondering if I would ever experience runner’s high again. At least I had entertainment to tame my mind.
I drowned myself in darkness and only saw light from a TV screen. Going outside wasn’t an option. Chicken fingers and barbecue sauce made me feel less lonely.
Look at me, I was stuck in a room peacefully disturbed. Working didn’t cross my mind one bit. I fixated with making the bags under my eyes look heavy.
Besides, rehabilitating and exercising to improve my circumstances, I felt guilty. There were things I could’ve done to avoid my condition. I wanted to decipher what I was trying to prove.
When I saw my reflection, I pictured a weakling. A person with no strength to hold himself up. I clung to my independence as if it were a medal. It was baffling to need someone for assistance.
If I could move without anyone’s help, I did and would not feel bad. Nobody should suffer from my mishaps. If it pained me to move, I endured it.
The depression wouldn’t go away. TV wasn’t enough anymore. Eventually, I wrote about my experiences and found ways to create.
I used dark creativity to suppress the anger I felt inside. Looking young but feeling old is a great contradiction. Nothing felt right.
There were nights where I was stuck wondering how my physical state would improve. I thought about what I could’ve done differently like listening to how my body felt and only lifting weights.
One of my messy pleasures is imitating happiness. I pursue achievements and suffer through challenges for photos of contentment. Memories are significant, yet I couldn’t continue devaluing my health.
