June 10, 2015 by scratchtype1
I step out into the very last remnants of evening light. The first fireflies flicker sparsely, green flashes in a world that has lost almost all color. The grass is dry under the bare feet.
Those who are capable of telling great stories, the ones that put a sliver of cold down in the deep warmth of your being, will laugh at me. I’m a fool in the night. But then, how many of those fuckers could run like me? So fuck them. So fuck me. So fuck you.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way, my drive home tonight finished with a song, and in the often unfortunate nature of songs, I heard the echoes of memories in its melody and lyrics. “You know I could use somebody…” Fuck you, Kings of Leon. Love songs are fucking awful things, aren’t they?
Let me be blunt. I’m a fucking awful person. I remember too fucking much. I probably use the word fuck and variations of it too fucking much. Even though I like to believe I don’t really use it out of any sort of malice, maybe I’m only lying to myself. We all lie to ourselves. We like to lie to ourselves because it gives us comfort. It lets some of sleep more peacefully.
Tomorrow, assuming I don’t die in the next 8 hours or so, I’ll go for a run. It’ll extend the running streak to 60 days. While I drove home tonight, I realized something. I never, never really think about the future while I run. I remember things — the very first run, done in darkness, in a pair of sneakers that wouldn’t be called running shoes by the corporations that profit off the deep human desire to run. The time long ago when I came out of the strawberry fields of an orchard in late May, dripping sweat, my face smeared with dirt and rust flakes from iron wire, and met a young woman with a smile like the first warm sun of spring. A time in Valley Forge when I held a woman fiercely, thinking we had resolved differences. A time that I had walked back and forth across the length of airport while waiting for a flight to arrive.
I wander out onto the grass and into the darkness. Some crickets rub their legs together. The early fireflies flash in a pattern that somehow is supposed to attract the mates to make the next generation. If I weren’t a type 1 diabetic right now, if I didn’t have too much insulin in me from a correction bolus only an hour or so earlier, I would want to run. I would want to run without eyes, I would want to run with only my bare feet to feel the world, to read the world, to see the world. The grass is dry. I am me, by myself, in the embrace of night and darkness.
I want to run and I cannot. I am type 1 diabetic. I am someone who has failed to keep the love of 3 women. I am a lousy and slow runner, truth be told. I can speak Esperanto fluently. That should make you laugh, if you read this. Or maybe I’m being too kind to myself with that, just because it made me laugh it doesn’t mean you’ll think it’s particularly funny.
Tomorrow will be day 60 of the running streak I’ve got going. Tomorrow I intend to run by a river in the early morning, but I hope maybe to feel good enough that I’ll run so hard that darkness will swallow me like a tiny gnat in its giant maw. Then maybe I’ll run without memory, I will run without encumbrance, without fear, without regret, without anguish.
But I know that won’t happen. Sisyphus likely knew he would never get that rock to the top of the hill. I will never forget. So fuck me. So tomorrow I’ll run. Tial mi kurados morgaŭ.