Desert.
I write when I need to unpack my mind. I write when it's cloudy in my head and the moisture being contained in the white creamy clouds needs an escape. I write when my mind wants to move forward, but the weight from the heavy clouds keeps the movement minimal.
I write when it's time to write.
The sweat pours down my face and fuses with my tears before the drops of moisture fall gently from my chin. I don't notice the tears. I don't think the world does either. The salt that is created in both forms of excretion is too similar for me to decipher which is which as they together saturate my entire face.
It's been six miles. I'll run six more. My knees shake, my blisters burn and the pavement is uneven as my joints smack it without forgiveness.
With every inch I move I push past the pain that resides so deeply inside. But this pain is minimal as I place all my energy into beating this inner ache. Six miles or sixty miles, it's all the same. I have to run until this pain is gone. I have to run until my physical state overpowers this mental state. I have to run until my brain stops thinking.
I'm running my emotions dry.
I run down a dirt path with shaded trees and tall shrubs on either side of me. But as I take another step I realise I'm running in a desert that has never seen rain. And with each step I pray harder and harder for the moisture to come from a source apart from myself, but it doesn't. It never has.
As I note the barren and vacant state of the desert, I realise what I thought were people are just figments of my imagination. I'm imagining things to be as they aren't.
I begin to run in circles as I realise that I'm lost. I'm growing weaker and my energy is depleting. The physical state that my body remains in is masked by the energy of my emotions finally wearing thin. I frantically search for water within any reservoir, but they all seem to be dry and dehydrated.
My efforts become futile as I dig deeper and deeper for the water I need. Just one small drop of moisture on my tongue would be enough... but it remains unseen.
I can't keep running in a desert. I'm losing myself. This desert is lonely.
I write when it's time to write.
The sweat pours down my face and fuses with my tears before the drops of moisture fall gently from my chin. I don't notice the tears. I don't think the world does either. The salt that is created in both forms of excretion is too similar for me to decipher which is which as they together saturate my entire face.
It's been six miles. I'll run six more. My knees shake, my blisters burn and the pavement is uneven as my joints smack it without forgiveness.
With every inch I move I push past the pain that resides so deeply inside. But this pain is minimal as I place all my energy into beating this inner ache. Six miles or sixty miles, it's all the same. I have to run until this pain is gone. I have to run until my physical state overpowers this mental state. I have to run until my brain stops thinking.
I'm running my emotions dry.
I run down a dirt path with shaded trees and tall shrubs on either side of me. But as I take another step I realise I'm running in a desert that has never seen rain. And with each step I pray harder and harder for the moisture to come from a source apart from myself, but it doesn't. It never has.
As I note the barren and vacant state of the desert, I realise what I thought were people are just figments of my imagination. I'm imagining things to be as they aren't.
I begin to run in circles as I realise that I'm lost. I'm growing weaker and my energy is depleting. The physical state that my body remains in is masked by the energy of my emotions finally wearing thin. I frantically search for water within any reservoir, but they all seem to be dry and dehydrated.
My efforts become futile as I dig deeper and deeper for the water I need. Just one small drop of moisture on my tongue would be enough... but it remains unseen.
I can't keep running in a desert. I'm losing myself. This desert is lonely.
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