I've probably posted this, but didn't know where to put it.
Soft against her skin, the air lay damp against her flying, floating limbs. Time sweeps and life flies by-forward.
Soft against her skin, the air lay damp against her flying, floating limbs. Time sweeps and life flies by-forward.
Clocks chase but never catching. You would think it would be the other way around. Ticking past, slowing the exertion. The slight hesitations of the seconds clocks firing with the miles past. And yet she still carries on.
Wind striking her hard and fighting back, braving the excess elements; sweat defeated by the pouring rain, hidden in droplets and rivers afloat. The salty skin soaked to the bone.
But why was she running? Bravery? Courage? The overwhelming urge to fight the good fight and win?
Or was it fear? Was it demons in her life telling her she isn’t good enough? She can’t run that fast, that hard, that far. Was it to prove them wrong- the ifs, the maybes, the doubters, skeptics, blasphemers, unknowns, the antis, the non-believers. Was it they who were pushing her limits-the burning lungs, trembling muscles, and the tired mind.
Or was it all just something inside, something that at the end of a real hard one said, “One more.”
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