Tuesday, July 24, 2012

The Loneliness of the Slow Runner

I move my limbs with great trepidation. Movement has never made me happy. I feel constrained, as though there is an invisible string tied to each and every muscle of my being. In order to run, I must move. In order to dance, I must move. My shoulders sag from the weight of thought. I want to be inconspicuous, invisible, non-existent even. I think all the time; my mind works like an endless oscillation, vacillating em to stop, between extremes.

I cannot look at the others. They pretend not to stare, but I see scores of eyes piercing my frame. The endless scrutiny, often a figment of my imagination, is unbearable. I want to beg them to stop, but I can't. They only do these things in my head.

P.S. Because running in New York City is never easy.

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