Short, quick breaths.
In, out.
Slap-slap,
my shoes touch the ground,
Steady rhythm, easy pace.
The first few steps are always the hardest.

Shoes caked with mud,
Dewy grass and sticky air,
The ground hums
A dizzying burst of energy,
And I'm racing, I'm soaring.

But I hate it just as much.
The aching muscles,
The warm smell of sun,
The 'I'm trying, I'M DYING'
But, I've hit my rhythm
and no matter how many times I tell myself I will,
I can't stop.

So I keep going.
Sometimes I feel like this is the rest of my life:
Racing through everything,
trying to catch up to some invisible goal,
an imaginary finish line.
Maybe in the end, we'll all finish in first place.

I live for the moments,
the out of body experience
Pushing myself so hard I can't feel the pain anymore.
Because, it's moments like these where I am so sure I am
flying
flying
flying.


But my feet always touch the ground
Steady rhythm
(slap-slap)
of reality.