The Compulsion

Despite the sticky weather, I do it anyway.  I do it at the beginning of day.  I encounter a dark horizon before me, yet untouched by the nascent day unfolding behind me.  Why face the darkness? you ask me.  Yet I ask you, What potential is there in light? Is light more beautiful because of what it already is, or is darkness more beautiful because of what it can be? And so you ponder.

I go along, pacing, pushing, finally finding rhythm.  I take in every scent tingling my body; the fresh dew, the strange citrus, the sweet grass.  The air around me refuses to breathe as I do.  There is no pain, not yet.  Not yet.

 

Despite the suffocating heat, I do it anyway.  I do it at the peak of mid-day.  I realize a need for thirst that is more the mind than the body.  What life is there in a desert? you ask me.  Yet I ask you, What beauty is there in a garden, if all its flowers have already bloomed?  Is a garden more beautiful because of what it already is, or a desert more beautiful, not because of what it already is, but what it could become? And so you consider.

I still go, faltering, stumbling, persevering.  I bask in the sun; forget the thirst, forget the exhaustion, forget the sweat.  My muscles cry out in agony.  Pain is only the beginning.  The beginning.

 

Despite the stagnant are, I do it anyway.  I do it at the beginning of evening.  I find the sunset bursting forth, as if the day was a single start that now explodes in death.  Why disregard the sunrise? you ask me.  Yet I ask you, What use is the final glimpse of sunlight?  Is sunlight to be pursued when it will very well come again, or is the night to be explored for the trials it may bring?  And so you reflect.

I keep ahead, fall behind, break even.  I listen closely to what greets me; birds whispering fair-well's, squirrels finding sleep, crickets echoing lullabies.  My heart bursts in joy.  In joy.

 

Despite the swampy feel, I do it anyway.  I do it at the silence of night.  I know the blood-suckers are out and the dangers are higher since I'm alone.  What point is there in wasting time best used for rest or study? you ask me.  Yet I ask you, What good is sleep when dreams are to be had only in fantasy?  Is sleep better in its impalpable reality, or is night better in allowing us a full observation of something greater than ourselves?  And so you muse.

I breath still, reach still, fight still.  I survive; alive and renewed, accomplished and proud, aspiring and innocent.  My feet blaze trails.  Blaze trails.