Horses run, people work, dogs sit.
I was born to run, from a family of racers, growing up from a little foal.
This is all I’ve known.
We run to stay alive; we praise the fastest horses.
We spend our whole life trying to catch up to them.
Only a few horses can escape this life —
taken away by family's wealthy enough to pay,
to be then kept as a pet.
I've been told I’ve been taken good care of,
fed with only the best food,
given a luxurious place to sleep.
“Better off than most of the horses,” they would tell me.
They put these metal shoes on my feet to protect them, they say.
I find myself thinking about my ancestors —
the horses that ran barefoot,
only ate what nature provided for them,
and ran for exercise.
Not for a living.
Instead, they ran with their herd;
the most running they did was to move to another location,
running to a better place.
That’s what I’m told I do —
the race-winning horses, they live lavish lives.
Maybe that’s why we run.
Maybe we have always been running to a better place.
This is my only way of life, so I run.
For I have no choice in the matter.
I run as fast as my polished hooves will take me,
knowing one slip of my foot and I fall miles behind.
My legs twist in unusual ways.
The smell of freshly kicked dirt, cut grass hits me in my snout.
It hurts, but I’ll spend my life trying to catch up.
If I fall again, I’ve seen what happens.
A tall figure comes,
“take me to a better place.”
I don’t know where horses go when they die,
but maybe wherever that is, I can stop running.
I don’t run to win.
I run to live.
Nov 4, 2025
Nov 4, 2025 at 10:55 PM UTC
Horses run, people work, dogs sit.
I was born to run, from a family of racers, growing up from a little foal.
This is all I’ve known.
We run to stay alive; we praise the fastest horses.
We spend our whole life trying to catch up to them.
Only a few horses can escape this life —
taken away by family's wealthy enough to pay,
to be then kept as a pet.
I've been told I’ve been taken good care of,
fed with only the best food,
given a luxurious place to sleep.
“Better off than most of the horses,” they would tell me.
They put these metal shoes on my feet to protect them, they say.
I find myself thinking about my ancestors —
the horses that ran barefoot,
only ate what nature provided for them,
and ran for exercise.
Not for a living.
Instead, they ran with their herd;
the most running they did was to move to another location,
running to a better place.
That’s what I’m told I do —
the race-winning horses, they live lavish lives.
Maybe that’s why we run.
Maybe we have always been running to a better place.
This is my only way of life, so I run.
For I have no choice in the matter.
I run as fast as my polished hooves will take me,
knowing one slip of my foot and I fall miles behind.
My legs twist in unusual ways.
The smell of freshly kicked dirt, cut grass hits me in my snout.
It hurts, but I’ll spend my life trying to catch up.
If I fall again, I’ve seen what happens.
A tall figure comes,
“take me to a better place.”
I don’t know where horses go when they die,
but maybe wherever that is, I can stop running.
I don’t run to win.
I run to live.
is a life of running, really a life?
where is this 'better place" we are all searching for?
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