Sprinting

I think I could be fast. Like I’m born to run. I could explode outward at a full run, and I could leave craters in my footsteps. The writhing sensation of claustrophobia is snakes in my guts. I’m contained. Pressing at the bars of this cage. I want to run. Snap the tether of this friction binding me to the smooth, caramel and chocolate patterned tiles. On this spot I’m feeling something inside me ready to break loose.

The signs say don’t run. The security guard—his face all loose and slack, having finally cracked after years of scowling—looks at me and I know that running is forbidden. The signs around me root my feet to the ground. They are the nails in my shoes, the binds on my hands and the walls of my cell. Grounded by convention, laden with conformity, I can only shuffle along, another body in the line.

Spirits bright and lovely, cold ghosts of the hard walls and streets, what place within myself must I see to move with that freedom? The noise within cries out to fly and not stop. Is there something I can train, a muscle to flex and trust in that will crush the clinging, maggoty vestiges of similarity to the others? These urges won’t be silenced. Grant me a muse for movement, some idle ethereal hands to aid me in my leaps and rolls. Guide my legs, make true my steps and show me the way. Feed me the perseverance to let convention lie and run.

Run through the crowds like an arrow. Dash over the tiled floor. Thumb my nose at safety and respect and be the relentless diving presence my instincts scream for me to become.