September 20, 2012

The Horizon

The sun cuts my face in two. Half blinded, I plod ahead at a steady pace. Nylon shorts ride high up my thighs exposing almost all of my legs to the sunlight. A navy blue long sleeve shirt clings to my body and annoyingly rides up my stomach because it naturally wants to settle into the concave crease of my middle rather than stretch out over the convex lower portions. I wear old shoes that still look clean after three years, and which mark my feet with a capital N on either side of each arch.

I breathe a 3-2 rhythm: in-in-in, OUT; in-in-in, OUT. I exist as an entrancing steadiness of repetitive motions. Shoe hits concrete, and thigh quivers in ripples before snapping to a tense stop. I'm all brain and body and while those are two words they are not two separate things, especially not now.

Thinking no longer happens along conventional lines. Instead, brain activity becomes like a hard drive just before it burns out and dies, only able to access the most recent data in fragments. This is the best part. The moments of blankness, when the bright and the dark colliding on my face paint a surface under which nothing at all simmers. The shirt rides up and I tug it down. Wind whips stray hairs into sticky sweat and I wipe them off with the grace of a cow swatting flies with its tail. I ache in ambiguous places, like somewhere in between my liver and hip bone, or the fat around my knee cap. I cramp because the breathing pattern got interrupted. I counteract pain with posture to mixed results. But I do not think, clearly, about anything at all.

Here is a space inside my body free of emotion or nostalgia. Here is a way that I move through the environment, poring out of my skin and absorbing into my senses the little molecular bits of what I think it might be to exist in the world. I take and I give in the smallest, most self-centered of ways. And then I come back to my home, and I wash it all off. The time of timelessness slips away into the hours, and I try to remember to keep my face neither up nor down, but simply toward a horizon.


Michael said...

i love this writing.

Syed said...

Seriously want to go running again, but my physical activity has been severely limited under doctor's orders. I get to do a half hour slow walk per day and nothing more...woop.

Claudette said...

i've been away from blogs waaaay too long. i'm glad i'm back. i swoon at your writing and at your everything, i think. by everything, i mean whatever you let transpire through this marvelous space.

gerald said...