Sometimes, when I run…
…I’m running from the stories that haunt me. I’m running from the stress of being a parent, of propelling a small child’s world, of having so much to lose. I’m running from the cold air nipping at my skin, teething on my bare arms. I’m running from the hourly news reports on the radio. I’m running from people who want to run after me. I’m running from bad karma.
I’m running from the news. I’m running from a world where a father burns alive in his house, along with his five children. Where a mother has to live with that for the rest of her life. Running from a world where everything is meaningless while everything is meaningful. Where we keep trying anyway.
Where children die, daily. Where we keep bringing them here, hoping things can change. Where they get shot at their day camp or outside their school by crazy men, deranged men, rational men, angry men, heartless men.
Running to clear my lungs, running to clear my head, and really, the running never ends.