My blood is running past the lungs and into the heart and then the brain. Dirty and clean and oxygenated and pulsed to the limit of the old man that owns it. Past the breaks that tried to kill him and it. Past the houses of the new rich and old southern money. Past the gates I trespass, climbing the hills, up to tasteless monuments of perceived success. Past the people who work harder than me and wonder what it would be like to sweat for fun, instead of need. Past the gates I am poor, down the south streets I am rich. If you ride far enough you see all things.
I am standing, pushing harder than I should, alone on the bike, the place where there is nothing but wind and breathing. The memories flood back and there are still no solutions. No matter how hard I think about the past gaffs and missteps, there is only one more hill to climb and ten more miles before I turn for home. There is a point where I am purified. Where the silence lives and beyond it, peace and absolution. If I just push a little more, it waits for me.
The clock is running in my pocket. Someone will feel like he is better than me tonight, but he knows nothing of my scars. No one knows all my stories. The stories of the times I counted waves and forced myself past the white water. The times I fought to get to class with out a bloody lip. The times I didn't defend the girls on the bus, from the older boys at the top of the food chain. They don't know the moment it all went wrong . I do.
I am rushing for the green light at the top of the hill. I am watching the car that may not stop in time. I am thinking of Dave and his son. I don't want to be another cautionary tale. I have already done that. I don't like the attention or the questions or the looks of pity and fear of contagion. I like the look of frustration. When you realize the poor bastard just beat you. When you are forced to re access. Its okay if I loose. I am the guy that shouldn't be here.
So I am running. I am riding farther than I want to. I am alone in the wind. I am unafraid of getting lost. Because I have made it home from worse than this little ride.
W.B.Z.N.
2 comments:
I'm saying- move to Lloyd. Lots of places to get lost around here. And we can have our own little writing group. Two's a group, right?
This post reminds me that we all have stories. No one really knows what we know, how we got our scars. And that is why we have to try and be kind. With others, with ourselves.
I wish I could move. Its not in the cards right now, but I love the idea of a place like Lloyd and a neighbor like you.
Post a Comment