The thought of getting started takes longer
than making certain familiar land is charted
by the running and breathing that is ambivalently regarded.
Immanent, self-imposed suffering is medicine closely guarded.
The choice to move or remain static is a power of will solely vested.
Every strike on earth like a thrash to bone, tendons tested. No end
in sight and no promise of safety is granted
by the eclipsing shadows of Doubt — confidence supplanted.
A battle between the temples.
One leg thrown before the other in furious trembles –
an act of composed defiance and commitment,
with every breath a glimpse of fulfillment.
Yesterday is a place behind stomps.
The cadence raps at tomorrow’s door
not racing to anything or from anyone but
charging toward a version of the self unlike before
in a dare to temper the spirit by fire.
To ask which tempo is desired,
the one by foot or the one by heart.
To know that every step
is
a
start.
Until sweat baptizes the brow and drowns imposters in
newborn rivers of raging white water –
fresh tears from the opponent within,
mourning the momentary slaughter of all thought
all pain
all time.
Until air is no longer thin,
for arms have become valiant feathers and
Victory is born in the piercing shriek
of an eagle crying
done, warning future enemies this war is won.
It is not navigating the globe burdened by gravity.
It is making sense of passioned reality.
It is the world being tested by one’s formation
through ruination, salivation, and salvation.
Running has been a part of my life now, on and off, for the past ten years. This poem has sought to bring forth my thoughts on the subject. I previously wrote about running five hundred miles throughout a year, which you can read about below.
Hugo is a writer of fiction, culture, and politics. Follow him on Twitter (@hugosaysgo) for recommended reading and memes, and on Instagram (@hugosnaps) for photography. Happy reading.
