*Eight years since I penned this, strange as it is, the lines still strike a chord to the emotion that spun these*
It’s where I want to belong,
kindle a thought,think for long.
Lay still as it pours dark and slow,
the rain,the thought, impale and flow.
Let thoughts stray without boundary
A respite, anyways life is a mockery
Jaded memories burst to life,
pave the causeway to a new lease of life
It’s all quiet now, but still the voice.
It’s now me or the other choice
It’s where i want to belong,
Am there but still unbelong
You know what makes a runner? Nothing. We are just a pair of nail-less limbs moving in rhythm through the contractions of a thousand muscle fibres, muscle fibres fired by a million synapses in the brain. Therein lies the problem. The brain. Probably the utter callousness of the two hemispheres to agree upon the common good of evolution; to seek comfort in shelter, rest and food. The failure to adhere to the rules of Darwin, runners tend to tread in the opposite direction of the general flow. Our hunter gatherer ancestors tore limb and fruit to land us here; Here in a bliss, privileged ocean of high carbs and fry. The industrial age ensured we don’t move a muscle to plough, to reap and to transport. Silver screens and streaming pictures ensured we don’t have to head out to colosseums to see humans bludgeon each other for entertainment.
Here we are at the cusp of everything our ancestors ever dreamt of and what do we want to do? We want to be like them. To keep moving, make new trails everyday. To run away to faraway lands in hunt of animals that no longer roam the forests, the only animals around now are mongrels and we run haywire when they come snapping. Of all the things we ever wanted, we wanted to be like our forefathers the most, to build cathedrals around our heads, then on paper and then on a mountain top, to catch the first rays of the sun. We then want to race to it from the plains, run up switchbacks lined with wild flowers, yellow blooms that leave their pollen on our feet to travel the world with us. With all the cathedrals built, with souls trampled like flowers on a side-walk, all we are left with is to dream and sometimes those stop too. So, on a dreamless sleepless night, you reach out and if lucky find that crankshaft deep within your heart, tether it to hope and jump start yourself, jump start into a run, a long hard run where you find yourself again and hopefully to dream again. Not to be haunted not be chained, only to be free. Free to think, free to be. Free to hallucinate about food dripping in fat and a beer to wash it down, that’s all we ever want. We just want to reach out to our primordial days, the little rush of rashness that’s left in us, we want to reach out to that place, dip our hands into happiness and let some of it sweat down our brows. We’ve failed our forefathers.”