Running Part 5

Perhaps this is a statement to my recovery;

My lack of poetry.

For those that have seen my first four parts will see this.

They may not have been good (I do not pride myself as a poet) but at the time they seemed capable of showing the pains and aches I felt.

I've gone back and read them, for the first time in months.

There's a certain guilt I feel, forgetting the feelings I lived with for months that others certainly still struggle to grapple with, yet I move on and forget where I have come from.

But reading through them I hurt again, they cut through my heart like a dagger. As I remember the hopelessness I felt, the days I spent crying in the kitchen...

I've since come to realize, it was not about the running, but just about the general crap of life and my running was my stress reliever, my escape.

It kept me sane, sanity I needed when everything else in life seemed to fall apart all at once.

I will always appreciate those that were there for me, my parents especially, because all through that hopelessness and pain never once did I ever feel alone. I know I am blessed to have never felt the hand of lonliness in my life, just hurt, hurt and loss.

But now, I've made recovery, I've run again, I'm working out again, reinserting myself into society.

It feels like the inverse of Neil Armstrong: One small step for mankind, one great leap for a man. Though that feels both like an up-play and down-play of that accomplishment. Up because in the grand scheme of things (mankind kind of scheme) what role did that play?

Down because an accomplishment is an accomplishment, a leap is a leap, no matter how small and who it effects.

And though I still feel the jump I felt when my heart skipped a beat, rereading my pain from the year past, I know I am new and refreshed, stronger and tougher than before.

I suppose this is a final testimony to my personal struggles, that series of pain I wrote. My final de adiu, letting anyone who'll listen know that I'm okay. Hence my opening, I can apparently make lines when I'm hurting, making it at least look like a poem. But now I'm fine, and back comes my bumbling, over-explained, over-complicated, explanation of my feelings. This stupid thing is barely about running.

'Magine dat.