When I dont run, I’m stopped. Still and thinking. Remembering. Wondering. The fuzz of anxiety begins to stir then plucks behind my sternum. Unassuming. Scoops down out of my stomach. Tries again. More aggressive. Starts to collar me. A sick simulated adrenaline. When I don’t run. So, I do. Blood beating. Pulsing. Sparking the needed override. I do.
When I force sprints, an indirect victory that stifles the twinges. The agitation. Go again. Intake. Push. Keep going. Mechanized. Pounding the ground. Rhythmic. Perfunctory all the way to the mark. Pass it. So I can allow my chest to clear. Finally. On it’s own. Stretching out long on the other side of that imagined line. Assess the vibrations returning to normal. Slow. Now, go again. Now.
Feeding myself, I keep climbing. Till one peripheral burn hints to outweigh emotional ones. Then another. And another. Stronger. Until the superficial becomes palpable. Until I’ve driven myself outside the bounds of the things I can’t control. The ones I can’t change. I want this. To force relief through the matter, and into the body. Every piece. Dilute all other pain. I control this. I control this release. I keep going. Till it all heals.