I Might Love Myself.
a poem by Brennan Utley
Slippery waves of sprints make my lungs ache, as my feet pound the ground beneath me. I hammer my purpose into the concrete taking course breaths, in and out, feeling the dirt burst through my trickling blood stream. Awkwardly beating my tennis shoes into the ground, I continue my clumsy run toward all the hope in America. Visions of sugarplums that were promised to me in the pains of my youth dance through my brain like polaroids. The images of rainy Sundays and dusty truths shine throughout my mind as I struggle to hold onto the memories gliding through my frame. I pile them into the arms of my conscience, as I continue my sprint, the weight growing as I hustle away. Lights blaze past, and I can almost make out faces in the yellowish blurs that pass me. Some smile, while others harshly grumble in discontent. They might all be full of smiles, but they might also have their faces downcast in disappointment at my very being.
What is a man to do in the face of this confusing blur of duality?
I stop my running, forgetting the goal, forgetting the sprinting. The lights still hover above me, but the faces have disintegrated, faded away like ghostly apparitions. Confusion begins crawling over me, giving me goose bumps, and making me feel oh, so positive and negative.
I swear I saw the faces in the bleeding lights. I swear they were either smiles or frowns, and I swear that I must find out the mystery of their existence. Can I only see them when I run? But if they truly watch me run I will feel so judged, and no one likes feeling judged.
Unless it’s the smiles, right?
But it might not be the smiles.
It might be the frowns.
I guess I’ll never know for sure.
I guess I’ll just start running again. I doubt I’ll ever be able to translate the muddled faces into a concise image, but at least I’ll have a reason to run. Didn’t I have a purpose before?
Maybe, maybe not, but I’ve got a new goal now, and it’s me.
Isn’t that sickening.