So many thoughts, all random and wild.
Everyday I look out the window (they finally gave me an office with a window to the outside world - woo hoo) and wish I was out there running. And by lunchtime, I usually am.
Am I a running addict?
Over 2 years ago I fractured my pelvis is several places and a vertebrae in my back. The physiotherapist told me at the time that running would be very bad for me. I ignored the warning and continued to run. I now experience pain every so often in my knee.
Do I do any good to my body to ignore the warning and yet maintain my fitness level by continuing to run? Does it make sense to run when it is doing more harm than good?
People say I should switch to biking, but biking is boring.
I tried to give it a shot with multi sports like triathlons - but I suck at swimming and the bike leg was agonizing for my back. I gave it a shot, it just didn't work for me.
So back to running.
Sometimes in life, we meet someone who changes our lives in more ways than one. Sometimes this someone influences our lives so deeply and profoundly that we become a different person because of that someone. And I wonder - what if I hadn't met that person? Does it mean that I don't become the person that I am? What would that be like? Can we ever imagine a life within a life, a life that is born and a life that dies? Or is it just a matter of different pathways that we take, but we always end up at the same place?
I like to watch people go by sometimes, busy people with quick little feet, running off to save the world. I always wonder about the lives that they lead. Do they ever cry? Do they ever feel compassion? Do they ever have sex? What is that like?
Voices in the background play themselves out like an opera. I hear the inflections, the emotion behind each word, the light slang and varying accents. It always reminds me of being in hospital where I can catch the slow snatches of conversations playing out low and quiet. Like the subtitles on a foreign film.
I have this printed image on my mind lately, of a little girl crouched over a small bonfire in a little backyard, burning her journals. Watching her words burn black and disintegrate into ashes, blown away in the wind. It is like a cleansing. She is so sad, but so much lighter, now that her words are no longer in print. I wonder - can you burn away your life, one piece at a time, can it all seem like nothing when it blows away in the wind? Does it still exist in the atmosphere, like a pungent smell that lingers long even after the source is taken away? Why don't we all gather in our backyards and burn our printed pieces? Why don't we burn ourselves?
At night, I lay in my bed silent and inconsolable. The day has torn a large part of me away. I no longer feel whole. Does sleep restore the pieces of me? Or would I battle it out with the night demons and fall asleep under a blanket of fear?
I am still haunted by that image of me, running barefoot down the street at 3am, escaping my ghost captors. Did I feel any safer in that locked ward? Did it make any sense to seek refuge in a prison?