My watch.
Oyster’s time.
The sliding odalisque.
The moonbeam, riptide.
My heart in a vase, drowning with roses.
My belly cannot know, for certain, what it’s giving birth to.
Pierre-Auguste Renoir, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
During the run she felt herself give up. She thought she was likely to pass out and walked for a while. But then she realized she needed to run through that too, the not knowing whether death was permanent.
At 53, the muscles, tendons, and bones all ache for departure. Meanwhile, the young masculine cheers the feminine on. He wants her total success. He’s cheering for the rise of the feminine with every strong gorgeous muscle. He means it. This stuff cannot be faked. He is my hero. A paradigm dies around my middle. My shoulders crush down like gravity. Is it heroic then to still persist?
I won’t give up, won’t give up won’t give up, no, no, no.
Is it bad to need the running soundtrack so badly that I stumble in between the songs?
In the incandescent glow, words carry on the way my feet shuffled after my own death around the lake. That’s the thing, we persist through the ego’s surrender. Who runs isn’t anyone we recognize after that.
Note: This blog was first published in Illumination on Medium.com
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