I Am a Prisoner
I've been wandering the halls, stumbling through life, and I see my countenance in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. I wonder if I look as bad as I feel. Obviously not, for no one stops to inquire; no one seems to notice. Or do they just not care? Does my appearance suggest that I hold myself together, or are people too wrapped up in their own problems to care about mine? I feel like I'm floating through the halls. As if the routine of putting one foot in front of the other has become as involuntary as breathing, or the weight of my worries has numbed the sensation of anything external. Where is the end? When will I begin to enjoy being me again?
I've been wandering the halls, stumbling through life, and I feel the cold stonewalls closing in around me. I wonder if I am as alone in this world as I feel. My friends tell me they're there if I need to talk, but how can they expect me to talk if I can barely walk? My pastors tell me that God is always here, but He has yet to show Himself to me. Has He dumped all of these troubles like hot coals on me and then abandoned me? Is this me talking, or is this my brother? The lines that separate reality and daydreams are blurring. Am I really writing this, or am I thinking about writing this?
I’ve been wandering the halls, stumbling through life, and I hear faint mumbles of unrecognizable words. I wonder if they are the voices of passerby’s or if they are from inside. They talk nonstop from dawn to dusk, but say nothing. Do they want anything, or are they there to agitate me? Am I the only one who hears them, or are they shouts in the distance begging to be drawn nearer? Are they around to keep me company, or deafen me with their incomprehensibility? I drown the incessant noise with the sound of music. I can hear the voices hiding within the notes. Why will they not leave me alone like everyone and everything else?
I've been wandering the halls, stumbling through life, seeing, feeling, hearing, wondering about the greater and lesser things in life. I have so many questions and so few answers. So many questions that no one can answer, so many questions whose answers I don't even know exist. The future can only reveal the truth, but the future can't help me in the present. I am a prisoner. Life is my cell. Running is the key. School ends. Saved by the bell.
I embrace the change of pace with open arms and a renewed mind, and I see vast expanses of open air and nature. I no longer feel miserable; I care little about my appearance. Everyone watches, they notice me. People yell trite movie quotes and messages of inspiration from passing cars. I smile, finally free. One mile down and still going strong. I relish in the sensation of putting one foot in front of the other, faster, faster. Breathing becomes manual. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Deep breaths expand the lungs. I relinquish my worries at the door where I left my books and shirt. I think not of the end, but of the here and now. This is what I enjoy. This is me.
I embrace the change of pace with open arms and a renewed mind, and I feel the wind embracing back. Two miles in and feeling powerful. Time to pick it up, faster, faster. The sweat covering my body cools as the wind licks me from head to toe. Sweat begins to pool above my brow and I feel it drip, streamlining a path for the following drops around the contours of my face. The world around me opens up into endless possibilities; all begging me to run this way and that. My friends stick to the sidelines, calling me insane as I go. I cannot help but praise the Creator for laying this immeasurable playground at my feet. He has always been with me, telling me to wait; my time will come. The troubles of the day now fuel the irrepressible machine I have become. Running is my reality, the place I know I am me and no one else; I am free, my mind is clear.
I embrace the change of pace with open arms and a renewed mind, and I hear everything acutely and distinctly: the pounding of my heart, the smack, smack, smack, of my shoes kissing the pavement. The adrenaline has my heart beating in rhythm with my steps. Three miles separate me from my starting point, and I hear the voices in my head yelling above everything else for me to go faster, faster. The voices are with me every step. They sing songs and play instruments with uncanny perfection. I sing along. I don’t hear my own voice. I sing louder. I yell. My heart beats faster. People begin to stare. I don’t care. They never leave, but now, I don’t want them too.
I embrace the change of pace with open arms and a renewed mind, and I don’t think. The only question I ask myself as I pass the fourth mile is if I should run another. The complexities of life unfold before my eyes and everything becomes simple. I have one task, one undertaking: run. I do. Faster, faster. I end my run and questions fill my mind. They wonder why I cannot run through life. Why must I stop to smell the roses? Another thought pokes its head in the equation. I am forever running. These questions run through my mind every second. My mind paces to find answers it never will. The pace increases as the day goes on. I am forever running. I am a prisoner. Running is my cell.