Thoughts on Movement
Kierkegaard says, “I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it.” Life on Earth is a constant tug between Search and Avoidance. I spend nights in a blur, telling different faces the town that made me and the dreams I’ve rehearsed in my head, as to push away any sense of uncertainty. I drove from one ocean to the other and soaked in every inch of land to unscramble the confusions of what now feels like a past life. And my feet ran until I forgot about my broken heart. The tension grew in my hips and unfamiliar sonic landscapes filled my mind until my memories belonged to some foreign entity.
Mosquitos are born from stagnant puddles and bogs, spawning exponentially, identically, all with malicious intent. (Sitting at my desk staring at a blank wall. Questioning these very words and if they mean anything.) Think of how free the rivers are. Growing pains, pebbles, and fears pushed forward gently until they amount to something bigger. The sediment hurts and tears, but it exists in a flow state. Pains are rendered unable to fester, to ponder upon themselves for too long. Running makes the sediment of my mind flow along down the stream of consciousness. My legs are short and I seem to have a propensity towards accumulating lactic acid too quickly. Many women I trust tell me that everywhere you go you bring yourself, and yes, I believe it. But I move and the details of the trees turn into a green blur and everything ceases to exist but the sound of my feet, one after another, hitting the gravel. It’s like the wind splits herself open to make room for me. And there, for a moment, I am bigger than all of this. Bigger than the pictures I have to draw to keep myself afloat. Bigger than my bad hair day. Bigger than him. My flow state figures these troubles out for me. My body streaks a line through everywhere I have been. I continue to propel myself forward not in spite of, but because of the burn in my chest and the tightening of my tendons. Physical pain as a sign of release, of accomplishment. No number pinned to my chest or sign spelling out my name scattered along the sidelines. Just my body, heel to head, propelling.
A good question to ask people is when they feel the most beautiful. For me, it’s when I’m driving in the car on an empty road or using big words or having conversations that bring tears to my eyes. My friend says for her it’s when she runs. I see what she means. Beauty being strength, strength being beauty. These things do not intersect for me as much. When I run I feel untouchable. Maybe we have different definitions of beauty, but that motion releases me from those expectations rather than encouraging them. My knees give out and my lungs beg for relief. And I feel the sinewy sweat drip from my lip, down my bare neck, between my breasts. I feel the salt crystallizing on my face and the hairs sticking to my back. The gnats and the flies accumulate around my head. I exclaim sporadic profanities at the poor things who have nothing to run from. I swat at them with sweaty palms and jerk my slicked hair around. But in that moment I love them. In that moment I feel like a mighty horse. Their long faces and protruding teeth, the muscles ripping through their mass of skin as if screaming for escape. I feel strength, but more than that I feel above any fear. Because the girl whose heart he broke, and the girl who can’t speak up to her boss, and the girl who is petrified of ending up crumpled in lotus position on a cushion upon her apartment floor, is not the girl who just ran five miles. I transcend the dimension of stagnancy. I’m no longer held back by the labels of being “in Los Angeles” or a “budding professional” or even a “beautiful young woman.” I am moving along and leaving thought by thought behind and that is all there is. A higher level of consciousness.
In my dream, I’m running through the desert alone, hallucinating. And the toxins in my blood have found their way out of this vessel of mine. And I couldn’t stop if I tried. I place one foot in front of the other from the road’s periphery and the sky turns strikingly white. And there is always the road, it is always calling my name. I am free.
Well eventually I collapse, and my shiny new running sneakers stick out from the bushes. There is nothing more to the story, I’ve just collapsed. In the dream I like to think I’ve finally run far enough to escape from my self-saboteur, the brain cooped up inside my head. I’ve finally found it! My ultimate thought. I’ve exerted all of the energy this body has given me and I’ve collapsed. I thank Kierkegaard and lay down for the last time. The dream ends there; the beauty and the bloodshed have all ceased. The blank wall I’m staring at is complete.