What am I doing?

Out of all of the mundane, idiotic, scary, and downright repulsive thoughts I had today, these interesting ones are of note.  

I was running for the first time in quite a long while, and it seemed obvious to me that running was all I should ever do, and all I should care about, since it was giving me such amazing and instant gratification.  How could I ever do or think about anything else?  It was difficult for me, at that moment, to understand why I am at present pounding myself into the ground with this terrible engineering degree at this less than stellar place in space, rather than pounding the pavement, so to speak, with my feet.  Why am I giving up this ecstasy?  I don't even want to be an engineer.  I don't know what I want, but not this for sure.  

Then, since I was thinking about the future anyway, I thought about Berg, this kid I knew in high school who was more devoted to running than anyone I'd ever known before.  He always used to say that he only planned on living until he was 30, because distance runners peak in their late 20s, and by the time they turn thirty, they've lost their edge.  At the time, I adopted the philosophy as well, because 30 seemed very old, and I was planning on running competitively for all of my life.  But now, I guess that doesn't seem so old.  And then I thought, wait, I never expressly told myself that I don't have that philosophy.  

I was starting to get an endorphin kick by then, so the philosophical implications weren't quite as imperative.  Instead, I assumed that my life philosophy still included this limitation (I'm not sure yet if it does or not).  Would I still be okay with what I am doing?  I don't know.  What about if I knew that I had only two years left?  Would things be any different if I died tomorrow?  

I pondered these questions for about a mile, relishing the breaths I was taking, and I decided something.  If I'm going to die tomorrow, I should certainly start working on what I want to have accomplished in 10 years, because then I can die redeemed, like I finally was working for something, and not just striving for self-gratification.  If I'm going to die in two years, then I better start today too, because then when I die my project can be in full-swing, and other people can carry on my legacy.  And if I'm going to die in 10 years, then I definitely want to start today, because if I die then without completing this thing that will have become so important to me by then, I will be very upset as I leave the world.

As I finished the run, I thought that I would go back to my room to study the sorts of things about which I will require knowledge tomorrow, two years, and a decade from now.  My next thought was that the run was the least wasted time I had spent in quite a long while.

My final thought as I ran up the stairs was that I sure wished I knew what I was supposed to be striving for.

Actually talking

Like silk and soft cliches, these roses dance
Right here, on this train to San Antonio
They laugh about mundane delays,
Wrought-iron tracks, reports on weather
Slow days instead take on their scent
Time in arms
Plied with color, rejecting cold
Warm and free and so cocooned
Arrival evokes no excitement
No apathy, no thought
All is melted, faded, a watermark
Except this focal moment of jade-free cavorting
On our way to Texas through this smooth pillow of a night

For Serious

Seriously, this time. I'm working at everything I do, to see if I can every day. It's not that much now, maybe. But what if, one day, everything is turquoise? It could gel this way. I'm thinking at this instant I'm too lucky to be granted this vision. I've achieved what I have received by chance. I've survived little, and learned too many things that are starkly academic. But these trees are in the seas of the past. I will do what I can, and try to motivate the courage, in me and everyone. What else can I do? This is all I have to offer. Yet still, I am a bit untamed. I still wonder what I am capable of. I know it's more than what I do now, but is any of it enough or relevant? I'm enjoying each moment of the chaos immensely, but in the quest for truth I remain uncertain. I am worried that the state of I may be a permanent condition.

Defenseless

In you I am cocooned, adorned
Obligingly transformed
Someone else, or no one else
Possesses my ripped body

You will share this in the air
So all can see my healing stare
For at a glance I am undamaged
And your appearance must be salvaged

A choice and a god-given voice
Left me on this parapet,
Lost without a bayonet
Stuck in your history

Lonely yet determined, like a good girl,
unabashed; I washed, I scoured,
I pretended and you watched instead
Once a month, as promised

It's a mean one, this endeavor
Continued all alone forever
Whisking through just for your ending
And still loathed without your blessing

I will run again and soon
You must suspect I needed room
Not in pleasure, now in terror
Unwittingly consumed

Fuck! I must be a dictionary.

It is happening again. I have this desire for words now, but no words come out. Well, yes they do.
Words about circuits
and words about algorithms
and words about chemistry
and words about water
and words about waste
and words about history
and words about politics
and words about babies
and words about friends
but they are all scientific.

No words about feelings or papercuts or the sad smell of bread.
And no, worst of all, no words about color.
No words about passion, only stark definition.
Some gestures perhaps, but even they are deceiving with specific drab meanings.

My wrists are the same width as my hands and that could be nice, because they fit in your hands. But all I can think of as I display them before me is

What homeotic gene was expressed at my raving conception that might give this me this specimen?

I missed it right now. I want words to lack meaning.

A monochromatic three weeks

Three weeks of intense
Incense
Words make no sense
Immense
Bodies encased in cement
Ease into the silence

Then CRACK!
Two colors commence

Break in form

Form and function, always. What's left to lose? Nothing. So much to gain. I run, I spread my wings, I try to fly always. Down, maybe, they take me. But first and foremost, I will fly. Fuck yes. This is not the right tone. It lacks fortitude. My face is pressed into a mold I forgot about, but it's still there and I can feel it on my nose. Tomorrow I break free. Free as I wanted to be. I don't know if I want that. But of course I do. Those shackles are too small for these wings.