Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Gump

I remember when my friend was dying of cancer years ago, I went for a run through trails we used to walk. It was a crisp, sunny day. The leaves were turning colour and the ground smelled of moist soil.

I ran and I ran and I ran and I ran.

I ran over a little bridge, through the wetlands and back again. I was running because I thought I was fat. At some point, I stopped. And I cried.

I looked at my feet. I thought of my friend. I thought of how pathetic the reason I was running was. I thought about how he'd never be able to run again, and how I was out there punishing myself for eating too much. I was running because I thought I had to, and he would never be able to run again. I was beating my perfectly healthy, strong, capable body, and he was dying.

Today was one of those days where reality set in. My brother is dying. He won't be able to run anymore. I sat on a rock on a beautiful beach in Hawaii surrounded by bustling coworkers, crashing waves and the howling wind and I stared at my shoes. My feet. I thought about how strong they were. I thought about how embarrassed I was for telling someone my day was just 'okay' only minutes before. I thought about how on any given day, no matter where I am or what I'm doing, I run.

I run to get water. I run to the car. I run to get lunch. I run to the bathroom. I run and I run and I run.

Sometimes people tell me to slow down, ask what's the rush? Why am I running? And I simply say, because I can.

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