The edge of everthing

 July in the record books, and what have you done? The war is on the horizon, and everyone denies that there is even turbulence. I find it is the effort that it takes to move a single molecule in the world today that could have started a jet plane decades ago. That whole Alameda conversation in The Voyage Home has come to pass.

White noise from silence, many do not know the difference anymore. I become ever increasingly out of time and the only one who knows what is going on. Did I ever imagine that I could give the gift of understanding to my children to the level that they have it?

As the wars rage on there is also a race. I liked it back when I could not see this far down the road, but let’s face it, that is all over now. Now, anxious, heart beating, panicking, the race is underway with most of it yet to run. 

I like to think that even though I get the feeling of being buried alive, all of the debris will suddenly roll away because of my efforts earlier on. If I could, I would see it now. All that I could do was push, then not push. Switching back and forth of voices of reason. One voice telling me that the storm is about to overtake me, the other saying to take a break, your January self will despise you if you do not.

For so many years I ran Morningside. The barn was but a speck in my line of sight. There was an eternity between me and that was only halfway, but I always made it. That night, I still had a day to look back on. In the density of these moments, I pull myself out of the moment and place myself into something normal, something in the future.

This sort of escapism has worked well carrying me through the pain of running. I think it is quite intelligent. I think it is quite beautiful.