Branch
Branch
Branch
The track goes round and round forever. You can't escape its logic, so you may as well embrace it.
Head down, one foot in front of the other.
Look at her go, they say. There's nothing to stop her now.
Branch
End of this branch
Not enough slots.
Branch
Run screaming toward the grandstands.
All that awaits you is a cold, damp towel and insincere platitudes.
Hark! Do you see them?
See what?
The stark realities watching you from the sidelines. Cold grandstands full of silent, predictable men.
There are no faces to be seen, just blurred suggestions.
Stomach. Tightening.
Why are their faces like that?
They're cheering you on. Those are their cheering faces.
Please, make them stop.
Once they get going, there's nothing that can discourage them. They're powered by potent stuff...
The memory of the glory days. For the treacly pleasure of watching a wasted athlete drag herself once more around the old track.
I'm not wasted, I'm seasoned.
Their cheering turns into an irrepressible roar. The stark realities have never seen one of your kind, and they never will again.
Lap it up, dögs. Witness the power of accumulated being.
I guess I've lived a fruitful life.
Suit yourself. The damp cellars of embassies are awash with the remains of old athletes of the middle-tier. They await you with polite applause.
Forgotten souls with plantar fasciitis and nothing more.
You have it in you. You are the ultra-light runner, magister of miles, a being made to set the pace for everyone else.
I don't know how many more laps I have in me.
The rhythm of your shadow is just one more pattern to break free from. Let them scream 'FOUL! She ran too soon.' Let them ask in disbelief, 'Did anyone hear the shot?'
What are they cheering for?
I don't see anything.
Of course you don't. They're imaginary until they become very, very real.