The Run

For the last 100 days or so all I was waiting was for this week.

Like a runner preparing for a marathon, I trained.

Pushed myself over and beyond knowing that this is my test of faith and love.

I endured. And smiled.

Despite a million and half worries, despite stress to the point where I could not sleep.

I had hope.

That kept me going on.

That pushed me each time, I was tired and wanting to break free from the the tedium.

I had longing.

Longing.

Through all my troubles, just the thought that, a little more and I will be reunited with my life.

I was tired and hurt and angry. And cursed the road, the people, the weather, the world for doing this to me and pushed myself even harder and longer for letting the world do it to me.

Give up, I did not, I pushed and nudged and prodded, my being, my soul to run harder and reach the finish line to see life and love. And just live and die in the same moment.

(With the gift of hindsight, which is like the angle of parallax, I tilt to assume that image at the end of the finish might as well be a mirage.)

Now, as clock ticks and seconds turn to minutes and minutes to hours, I want to stand in the middle of the two hands of the clock and stop it. Stop time.

Cause now I have no hope, no longing, no desire. No strength to see what lies ahead. Let alone face it.

All I have is this vague sense of weird hollowness, as though some one scooped out a major chunk of life out of me and I still stand, seemingly full.