It’s not so bad when I’m running. My feet pounding the pavement has become a soothing ritual. It’s as if the rigidity of the ground below me seeps into my bones and I become stronger and harder. But when I stop, I become soft again. When I’m soft, I melt. My borders become more fluid as I lose form of who I am. I can no longer remember who I want to be. I’m sticky like sap removed from a tree. Everything is slow to me, but I am restless. Moving through sugary molasses with a taste for savoury adventure, unable to satiate the urge to escape my sweet prison. Yet, it’s comfortable in a way. Rocked to sleep by rhythm only to wake up and be sick of routine. Instead I want to take advantage of the overwhelming and limitless options that are available to me.
But I’m tired.
I’m tired of being annoyed with myself and believing that everyone else is annoyed with me, too. I’m tired of speaking without being heard, or truly, deeply seen. And knowing that it is my fault sometimes because I withdraw when I’m hurt. I’m exhausted when I’m being bombarded with ideas of what my life should look like. It's a tiresome way to live. More appealing to me is a simple life where rivers and mountains and gardens are enough. And then I would feel enough, too.
Though cliche to say, I am also tired of being tired. Usually I would think that all of this could be solved by meditating, but I cannot stand to observe my thoughts anymore.
So instead I will run. I will take hot baths. Soak my body in lavender and forget my physicality, if only for mere minutes. Focus on the water and how I wish it were the ocean. Forget that I am here, in the city, moving through motions.
Forget that I am tired.