Running Back to Myself
I dream of my feet pounding the pavement in my threadbare purple trainers, rock music blasting in my ears, the wind rustling through my sweaty ponytail. There are infinite paths to choose, a plethora of branching journeys to take. There’s nothing hinged on my decision to travel left over right, no emotion to distress, no target to hit. I am emancipated from the chokehold of obligation to weld myself to some fabricated ideal of right or wrong. My authenticity uncorks with each step of unbounded liberty.
The road doesn’t care if my appearance is distasteful. My perspiration clad gear, chipped fingernails and naked face are revered by the breeze that tickles my flushed cheeks. Neither plant nor vegetation would even think to say, “My gosh you can’t go out like that, looking so repugnant”, instead I brush their tender leaves with my palm as I pass, grateful for their charm and I admire their kaleidoscope of colours and connect with their unprejudiced grace.
The single object of my thoughts is to connect my breath with my feet. I pace my steps like a waltz; inhale 1,2,3, exhale 1,2,3, repeat. I let the run take the rhythm of a dance, replacing nature for a ballroom and Lycra for pearls. Glitz and glamour tarnish and turn to rust with time, but I am yet to see a sunrise that hasn’t humbled my soul, left speechless in its presence. The cure and antidote for my over anxious mind is basking in the glory of a perfect sunrise.
I remember my first run after years spent battling multiple sclerosis which devoured the nerve connection to my legs. An epic playlist pulsated in my ears, egging me on, as I rekindled my feet with freedom. I reached a vast hill and prepared to engage, dragging air into my lungs. “I can do this”, I whispered, ready to soldier on. Attacking the hill like my illness, I climbed one stomp at a time, the puff of my breath forming clouds of smoke in the bitter winter air. My lungs ached with the weight of an anchor, but my legs carried me on. When I reached the peak, I collapsed to my knees with tears streaming down my salty skin, but not from exhaustion, from victory, I had won.
That was a long time ago and at some point, I changed who I was; favouring sculpted muscles over the freedom of a sprint. It’s useless to regret my decision, I know, but now with the power in my legs once again revoked, it’s not jam-packed gyms that I long for, but the reprieve of the road. I yearn to chase the white rabbit, swerving up and down, to get lost in some deserted woodland beneath the heavenly moon. I crave to be reunited with the universe, surrendering consequence and ambition, cracking my shell of entitlement to be part of something bigger. And once I’m lost and panting, in the wonderland of the wild, the twinkling stars will map my way back, back to me, back to home, back to life.
