It's not enough to flee from problems, to pack up a bag and sprint, whether up hill or down, leaving a mug of tea steaming on the table, forgotten. But how do you stay when the urge to run threatens you with its force?
It's not enough to pretend to live, to surround yourself with people and music, noise and books, laughter and hugs, when you don't really know anyone or are known by anyone. But how do you settle and deepen and cut things out, narrowing your view, when there is so much you want to see, hear, and taste?
I know it's not enough and that's why I panic.
It's a funny thing, panic. It's effects are long-lasting, that shaky uncertainty of forgetting everything, failing everyone, certain helplessness to do anything. As you try (and beg) to talk yourself down off that ledge of your heart beating so fast surely you're going to die, of too much breath (too much life) that you're killing yourself, nothing makes it ok except the passage of time, of watching the minutes tick past and knowing that this too will pass. Funny when the cause and the cure are the same.
Maybe that's why I run, because being somewhere new gives the illusion of time going faster, going slower, not existing. It's a chance to step outside my existence of expectations and supposed to bes and actually be; to breathe, not too little and not too much, but enough to keep the seconds, pulse-like, ticking.
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