26.2 Miles

It’s like running a marathon.

You’ve been running forever.

You’re practically gasping for air.

You promise yourself that you’ll stop at the next intersection and catch your breath.

You fantasize about that intersection.

You imagine how great it will be to finally take a goddamn break.

But that intersection never comes.

And you’re running, and running, and running.

And you’re gasping, and gasping, and gasping.

Your lungs can’t seem to get enough air.

You’re practically chocking on the little air you can manage to get because you’re still running, and running, and running.

That is the crippling feeling that encompasses me when I wake up in the morning with the view of another day on the horizon.

Even eight hours of sleep doesn’t seem to quell the feeling of being a windup toy that never finishes unwinding. I march endlessly with no end in sight, legs still marching long after I’ve fallen.

With each day comes an endless to-do list that seems more and more like a hundred headed hydra. As I check off one task, another two seem to replace it.

This endless responsibility manifests into stress, weighing me down like boulders that have sunken to the bottom of a lake. I trudge through my day, feeling their burden resist my already tired movements.

And how tired they’ve become.

I feel like a battery that’s been operating on it’s last percent.

I feel like an opera singer that has been holding a high note since the beginning of the show.

I feel like a car that’s been driving cross country on its last mile of gas.

Yet, I keep running, and running, and running.

But all I want is to reach that intersection and finally stop.