The Runner's Tale

Once upon a time, there was a runner.

She was not like those who run marathons and enjoy being sportive. She was the kind that all dread, for she flits from place to place craving adventure and movement. Doing all she could to avoid stasis and stagnancy, she left catastrophe in her tracks, pregnant with the need to avoid anyone holding her in one place. Her movement created cacophonies in the wake of thrashing.

All in the name of wanderlust.

The little known twist to the ever fluctuating tale is the reality of it all. For adventure was merely the guise behind the truth. Running and running meant freedom. Scampering away meant that there would be no chains. All those who held her back were no longer in existence.

The words clamored against skull as she pondered to go or to stay. It was the brief quips that maybe meant nothing, or maybe something. The words so poignantly true but so far from prose.

You can't do it.
You shouldn't do it.
It's a bad idea.
You'll never do it.
You'll never achieve your dreams.
I love you.
Follow me.
You will never succeed.
Give up now.
Please stay.

The prose rang on and on, while the runner flit from place to place.

Running meant never being hurt. Never being let down. Never being asked to stay. Running meant never realizing her true feelings behind it all. Following the thing she dreamed of at night as she lie alone, pondering if it was the right choice.

Eventually, the cacophony fell into euphony. The words faded away into the brutal realization that running was the guide she avoided for so long. That in between the plan for the next adventure was a desire to stay.

To find a home. To find a passion. To find a place to have your goddamn cake and eat it too.

But like all great runners, eventually, you can't always run. Your body will tell you to stop. The universe will closely follow in succession purveying signs. And your pugilism will get the best of you. And the universe will tell you, that it is all done.

The runner stops. The world stops. And the runner is moved to tears.

Down on her knees, she realized it all. That her life had been about looking for a reason to stay. Her life, consumed by wanderlust, drive, and sixteen hour work days, was a reason to avoid a place to stay.

And then she stops.

And she has found a place to stay.

And she is moved.

And all in good time, the universe picks her up off her feet, and puts her in her place.

And the rain falls, tainting her wine glass, but holding her, washing her thoughts away, and slowly rinsing the earth of the chaos she left.

And when the rain was done, she created a euphony. For she moved again, but not in haste.

For the hopeless wanderer slowly pulled herself up, and as she glacially let one foot fall in front of one another, the euphony created a symphony that those around her held onto so dearly as her footsteps resounded joyfully as she reaches her final destination.

For the runner's cacophony had ended, and the euphony of her footsteps told the tale of it all.

That the runner decided to stay.

A Guest Blogger

Someone dear to me wrote this for a creative writing class based on literature about love, and passed it on for me to see. It's just too good not to share, so enjoy a special guest blogger :)

____

What can be said that has not already been said?  In the course of human history, great men—artists with words, brushes, and chisels have composed celebrations of humanity that have weathered the tests of time and scrutiny with the steadfast bearing of a loyal sentry.  What difference can this small contribution of mine make to the raging inferno that beats in the hearts of all men?  To this great maw of fire then I cast my pittance of an offering—because, while it may not be enough to stir the fire to its next level, perhaps it will keep it burning until the next great man can do so.  She is everything that these men have created and more.  Even her silences are pregnant with reason enough to make me pause and listen to her.  And when she speaks—oh when she speaks!  It’s not as if a chorus of angels has descended, but rather as if the trees and grasses and all that is green and good in this world have all moved in unison to create the lush ebbs and flows of her voice.  This is all of course to say nothing of her beauty.  Her face should be hung on the Aegis—to replace the head of the Gorgon, for it has the power to turn nations and armies not to stone, but to sincerity.  And when the clouds break and a smile plays along her lips, the hearts of those whom the rays touch are stirred to action.  Cowards are made strong, the shy are given voices, the selfish are made selfless, and all around are inspired to be that which they have so long dreamt of being.  Not all is grandeur though.  In those quiet moments, those when you are lucky enough to merely sit and gaze into her, then she becomes the quiet beauty of a still, serene lake.  Which reflects all of the best of you, and all the best of the world.

The Replacement.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

http://elitedaily.com/dating/letter-girl-replaced/707040/

On Travel

Hello friends!

For those of you who haven't heard, I'm going to India! Please take a moment to check out my campaign and consider making a donation :)

http://www.gofundme.com/dbvtbk

On the Unknown.

Beware, this may be too much of a stereotypical white girl post for anyone's good, but hear me out.

You've heard the songs. They're the songs that explain how much one person loves another and the gestures that accompany it. Songs explaining the hope for something greater. A poet lyric that tries to summarize how and why you love someone.

But on the other hand, the songs that resonate more are the songs that explain of heartbreak. They tell you of the love they had and lost. A love poetic and perfect deserving of a movie. A breakup so catastrophic that Taylor Swift couldn't write an appropriate album to summarize it.

The theme running along this is that we know what love is. The idea that we can write a description of what love is, it's physical qualities, the gestures that describe it, a hopeful attempt at explaining the emotions and the feelings that come along with it. It serves as a guide for what to feel before you say those three words.

I. Love. You.

When we're young, we're told that one day, when you fall in love, you'll just know. Unfortunately, in our naivete, we think we know about 712 different times. Frank Turner said that he's meant the words each time he's said it, but it never works out.

And that's the sad reality of love, is that as beautiful as it is, it often doesn't work out. It makes you whole, and destroys you down to the tiniest microcosm of your soul. All because each time, we think we know what love is, and how it feels. We think we know what that person meant to us and what love felt like.

Until we lose someone we love, and we break in two. And we end the day thinking that we will never love again.

Yet I've come to consider that we only know what love is after we lose someone. There's some long story about how to fall in love, you must first fall in love with this series of people and fail and have your heart broken. I think the story is true, that a series of heartbreaks are what lead you to your ultimate happiness. But I don't think you fall in love with each person. I think you fall in love with the idea and you cling to it.

I thought I knew what love was, once upon a time. I thought it was what I felt and what kept me glued to a place in time. And now that I've grown up, I realized I didn't have the slightest clue. And I'm not saying I know the answer know, but I think it's a lot closer than what it was.

I don't think love is the thing found in songs. It's not the cute pictures. It's not the Facebook status. It's not what anyone ever told us it would be.

Love is that constant stupid grin on your face, all because of the other person. Love is laughing so hard you cry. Love is the little surprises, like post it notes in your lunch box. Love is waking up next to someone and knowing where you belong. Love is the safety of a hug. Love is spending your nights in reading next to each other, instead of going to the bar to flaunt your happiness. Love is never being bored by looking into someone else's eyes. Love is the thing that moves you to your highest highs and lowest lows. Love just is.

Love is a word that expresses an emotion that has so many descriptions that you could write a doctoral dissertation and not even be close to done.

Like I said, I'm not sure I know the answer, but I know a lot more than I thought I used to, and I would like to think I'm getting close to the answer.

On Longing.

Lately, I've felt the need to write, but I've found myself at a loss for words. See, when I want to blog, I wait for that epiphany to hit me so my words stream freely. 

I wait for the ephemeral moment where lightening flashes, but the affects of the thunder still shape the moment and the residual experience. 

The thing that's been on my mind most lately is freedom. Specifically, in  the forms of places and words. We live in a great big world described by a myriad of ambiguous and arbitrary words. Yet such a big world and its arbitrary descriptions have such a defining impact on our microscopic life. 

I think that we all crave freedom. Freedom from the constraints of this world, from the responsibilities of being an adult, from our personal baggage, and often our own defining thoughts. For some people, the way to quench the craving is a space bigger than one's own self. For others, it's the series of words they dream of and cling to the hopes of hearing. 

In a way, we leave our freedom and hope dependent on others. To go to another place often requires a third party to help make that happen, be it an employer, a significant other, family, etc. It's a dream to move away and start over. But the fear of it all holds us back. So the other person acts as a crutch to make our break the decision. 

But therein lies the paradox. The places where we feel free are the places we often can't be. The places in which we thought would give us freedom and rejuvenation are the chains that constrain us. Thus the never ending paradox begins of staying in the comfort of the chains or running to something new against the wishes and support of others. 

The caveat is that the support of others isn't always a physical thing. Many times, it's an intangible syntax. It's the words of approval from a family member, it's the apology from those who betrayed us, it's the confession of love from someone we hold so dear to us. It's the hope that someone understands us and can speak through to our soul. 

Yet when we don't hear those words, or when the words we hear are an adapted or abridged version that doesn't fit our imaginary thesis, we become even more confined. As much as we may desire to flee, we hold ourselves closer in hope we will hear the words we dream of. 

So here we stand at the crucial moment. The moment where we stand bonded in chains of geography and syntax. For some it could be the moment where one results in the dismissal of the other. Or the moment where we break free. 

I can't say I know the answer. It's 2am and I'm trying to wrap my mind around a concept that consumes me while I listen to the rain cleanse the city. But I know this. I know there are spaces where we feel free because we feel bigger than ourselves. I know there are words that free us because they are the very thing we dream of as we fall asleep, or the words that keep us awake as we bond with insomnia. 

My freedom is in a city. In a place where there are millions and no one knows who I am and my story. My words are those that affirm my deepest insecurities. I spend my nights of insomnia thinking of the places I want to go and the words I want to hear. 

But my freedom and my chains are not bigger than me. I can rid myself of insecurities. I can remove bondage to weaknesses in hopes of something new and revitalizing. I can move myself to a new city where I am new. I can surround myself with inspiration and dive into something greater than I've ever known. 

And as I write this, I'm still thinking of the words I want to hear and the places I want to go. Two things that are polar opposite. And as much as I want to end with an epiphany about the next step for you and me, I don't have one. 

The closest thing I bhave to an epiphany are the simplistic and profound words of Ellie Frederickson. 

"Thanks for the adventure. Now go have a new one."