There’s this “thing” inside of me. It yanks in one direction, then another, but my feet are bound. I want to run with abandon from something. Everything. I want to run with fierce intensity toward something. Anything. I must move. This tug ‘o war is rending my seams. I must take action. Take flight.
This itch, from the inside out, that can’t be scratched by conventional means. If its wild is not unleashed, it will continue to stampede the breath right out of my chest.
What is it?
That thing I feel.
It’s not revealed itself. I simply feel pulled in the dark toward this unknown.
Follow. Trust.
I try with tiring effort.
Tread water. Exert. Go in circles. Go nowhere.
Is this the rat race that is oft referenced? I wonder. It feels like what I imagine a rat race to feel like – Desperately wanting to see a horizon of welcome in place of the increasingly common mirages.
I keep on because. Because what’s the alternative? It’s not that much better, but still worse. Or is it? That dogged seed of drive, of tormenting hope, says it is: Harassing me to continue trusting that there’ll be the horizon. The welcome. Just keep treading.
Oh how I dare to imagine what sweet relief awaits, as the wave of true exhaustion purges my sins, dilluting doubt and desire. Imagine the magic of true satisfaction enveloping this fragile state, permission to finally rest. I keep on because the chance of such a thing is always worth the gamble.
I’ve been having this exact feeling tonight. Thank you for this poem. I’m going to keep gambling.
I’m betting only on a sure thing and keeping on.
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