I never like to watch tragically sad movies or listen to sad songs or read sad stuff.
It's not so much of a mere transfer of sadness;
They make me depressed, and it becomes a downward spiral.
they imprint the emotions on me with a branding iron and there's the pangs of feverish anxious flutterings in my chest which follows like a disease as the wound festers.
I get stuck in this rut, too tired to call out, too resigned to raise my hands to the fingers reaching down from above, to get up...
all the while thinking about the terrible, hollow numbness within.

so tell me why experiencing too much happiness makes me feel this way too now.

do you want to know how I started running?

I ran because, I thought, if I ran fast enough I could run away from myself.
That if I ran hard enough I would leave myself behind.

And be free.

Did you know that if you ran in the dark, you'll be invisible?
That the only way you would be seen would only if they pointed their headlights fullbeam, straight on at you?
Did you know how powerful it felt to have your own perspiration lace the thoughts in your head?
The melding of the familiar with the unknown?
Did you know?
Did you know?
Do you know?

where do you reach to, when you realise there's no one real source of comfort you can go to?
what can allay the ache inside, the void that refuses to be closed?

I thought it was filled many years before.
I know it can be filled once more.
It's just now, it's just now.

Don't say a word, it's not time yet.

To the one that's dear:

Most dreams aren't worth pining for.
But some dreams are worth fighting for.

on the body:

it's just a form, one that gives us tangibility and the power to interact with others.
a vehicle, if you like, that allows us to journey through the span of our existance as a participator, not merely as a spectator.

That's the point: that if we find ourselves strained and overworked in our upkeep of the vehicle, if we find that all we're doing is centred around testing its mileage and pushing its boundaries, we're missing the point.

Perhaps in the beginning, its alright to spend time on it, the way we would conscientously devote ourselves to personalising and modifying new cars or bicycles, testing its functions and abilities...

but perhaps, once we're done with that, its time to move out of the garage and use it to actually function in the world out there.

pause, a while my dear
run no longer
you see so much more, to stroll.
have you not seen the dark crow cry
and evening skies they bloom for you
if only you care to tilt
your head up from the road ahead.

If time's speed passing on by
were it not enough for you that
you add the hurried treads you necessitate to take
is it no wonder you miss the smiles
and hands outstretched?
can you blame the whispers caught and lost
in the wind of your strides?

Hush now.

While running today, it suddenly dawned on me how much life was like the oval park track.
This park track was special; one side was bumpy and windy and had mini mudslides.
it was uphill and it took more effort than the other side which was smoother and straighter.
I also noticed today that it was 300m longer than the other side.

It's a habit of mine to run from the bumpy side upwards, and finish the loop via the smooth slide, but it was only today that I noticed how I could relate it how life is from what I see around me.

It seems that most people take the route that I run physically.
Metaphysically, they start life out tough, and it takes alot of effort to run upslope.
They meet mudslides along the way, and it takes longer, it seems, to do your share of slogging before you can travel the rest of the way with much more ease.

Of course there are some that don't do the loop. The bumpy path seems far enough, and you'll never know what the other side might be like for you, because you only live once.
So, giving up, there's only one way to go: back.
back down the old bumpy, windy road to where we started.
Of course there's other reasons besides loss of self-belief.
There's the tree across the path we can't go over, the mud that fills up the path like porridgey mess, the ominous lightnings that tells you to do it the hard way or else...

Anyway, it seemed kinda funny that it has to loop back. but I guess no matter what the journey is made up of, everyone has to go back to the same place eventually.
back to the earth where we belong; flesh and blood now, ash and dust eventually.
But yet we all know there's a difference.

It's not so much of one route being better than the other. no one has the right or power to decide that.
Rather, its the experiences that made up each one's journey.
The speed at which we go, the weather, the people we meet, who we run with, the mudslides we skip over or get messed up by...
the thoughts that make up our journey. THE THOUGHTS.
It doesn't matter, really, i guess. We all end up where we started.
So, maybe, we all just have to make the travelling worth the while, while the route is still in front of us.

It's time to quell the flutter mutter
pitter patter of my skipper skapper heart.
It's time to blanket-stifle tight-fist-wrestle
and hold the ends apart.
with bouncy bits and anxious nips
and attempts to do splits in my chest
maybe its my head this time
that should give my heart a rest.

even cinderella's coachman has his own story,
a tale less told but no less than a fully-bloomed one; a whole new book rather than a small side note on cinderella's pages.

and there's two sides to everyone, not so much because we all wear masks
but sometimes there's just us and us and us.
a stranger to ourselves that we know and feel for.
I guess you can say we all have closets, some less secret than others.

so...here's my closet: opened.