I am running toward the sea, or toward the mountains, or
toward the prairies, or toward the north. Where I am running really doesn’t
matter all that much does it? The
running is what matters.
No, I am not going to walk out my front door having doused
the house in gasoline, dropping a match and walking down the street and take a
bus as a fiery orange glow warms the winter in my neighborhood. Not my style.
Not what I mean by running either.
I am mentally running to places I have been, to places I want to hold
onto with my all my heart.
Running away, not really I am running toward things that
will fade if I do not note them so very soon.
When my brother passed away a whole wealth of memories
vanished from this sphere, memories in which I played a bit role. I realized then I had to keep writing down
things that made a difference in who I have become. Someday my kids will want to know. Can’t you
hear the questions already about why was Dad always so weird regarding that? If
using the long stepping legs of my mind I run back to those places where my
life on a dime and changed my very being and if I observe it and get it down on
paper they will know why Dad was so weird.
It is for this reason I come seeking a space to write. Yup only me and my monster know what really
motivates my very being.
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