ten miles later

What do you think about when you run?

I was asked this question a week ago and I’ve been wondering ever since — I honestly don’t know. My thoughts usually flow at a pace slower than my feet, the only time I direct more focus towards breathing than any idea taking hold in my mind, but they’re fleeting, almost entirely forgotten shortly after my legs stop moving. What always remains are the feelings. A strong long run is likely the closest I’ll ever get to meditation.

I have a habit of pushing people away to see if they leave, except I still don’t trust them if they stay. I continuously test their commitment. I write scripts in my head and create scenarios from my own desires and if they’re broken then they fail, yet I still stay, despite the disappointment and the heartache and the unmerited feelings of betrayal. It’s all in my head and that makes me feel insane. But I stay until I reach an arbitrary breaking point that I don’t know exists until I surpass it, though before I do I adopt a façade of indifference. It’s complete and utter bullshit and it’s broken every time I cry, which is often, though when I struggle to wash the dishes in my sink or leave my bed in the morning I usually can’t find tears until they’re ready to fall so quickly I begin to choke on my own sobs. It’s a self-protective emptiness. The truth is that I care deeply, about everyone I have ever loved and everything they have ever done, to the point of my own ruin. I will destroy myself for the sake of love.

I’ve written some of my best monologues while running, the ink dark against the white document pictured in my head and my lips moving in silence as I try to memorize my own reflections, as if I am preparing for the test I know I will give myself when I finally reach my shower. I fail every time. I ran ten miles yesterday, up 2nd Avenue and through Central Park, and the only thought I remember having is, I wore the wrong socks. I realized this around the seventh mile and all I could do was pray as I started to feel the blisters forming on my arches. I don’t subscribe to religion, but the laws of physics answered my appeals and my feet remained blister-free. I hit ten with a smile on my face — the distance felt good.

I’m a strong believer that whoever said “you can’t run from your problems” either wasn’t running fast enough or wasn’t running far enough. I have never met a problem I couldn’t run out of my system, whether it took under an hour and a mere 6 miles or nearly a month and a sum total of 78.77. Sometimes I question if I’m fleeing my troubles or if I’m chasing the type of peace that only endorphins can guarantee. Perhaps I’m doing both.