He runs his hand down my spine the fingers linger mindlessly on each defined ridge his touch not arousing but comforting, assuring me that I still have mass, a shape: that I am not entirely invisible yet.
The feeling of warmth under my touch. Smooth skin pushes back against my hand. Her back arches slightly at my caress. Her body conforms to mine My arms tingle A single tear I shed I smile Sleep comes peacefully This is where I could die
I love to write, and what better channel to exercise that passion than the ambiguous world of the internet. I am a writer, a runner, a woman. Often happy, sometimes scared, always resilient. My writing is raw, unedited, the culmination of some emotion too powerful to let lie. Like my running, it exposes me, my strengths, my weaknesses. There is an undeniable parallel: the physical exhaustion after a run is eclipsed by the mental gratification; the emptiness after writing negated by the ensuing catharsis.
I don't write here because I think I am great writer, or have a story to tell, or have thoughts so genius the world simply must hear them. I write here for the same reason I run: I have to.
Alas, the knee forbids further racing. I do still run, but, believe it or not, have come to appreciate a run for run and not for how much better it will make me. I also swim. My time in the pool is perhaps some of my most valued and favorite time.
1 comment:
The feeling of warmth under my touch.
Smooth skin pushes back against my hand.
Her back arches slightly at my caress.
Her body conforms to mine
My arms tingle
A single tear I shed
I smile
Sleep comes peacefully
This is where I could die
JB
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