Writing. Creatively

So it's been a while since I posted anything new.

I stared a creative writing class Monday.

We write a lot.

Here.

5 Minute Write...

Running is my favorite enemy. We have a love and hate relationship that I can’t live with or without. It’s a relationship ultimately dominated by one word: hate.

This hate hits me in stages as I run, increasing and decreasing in intensity and focus. Beginning the run, I hate how tense every muscle is. No amount of stretching or warming up can prepare them for the pavement they’ll have to absorb. Each muscle in my legs and hips and stomach feels like an un-oiled joint at the crux of a large, out-dated, bulky machine. I can feel the individual fibers straining to catch up, reluctantly contracting and loosening with each stride. My mind looks for things to distract me from the awkwardness of the first steps, but all it can come up with is more hate.

I hate the Sun, the rays that relentlessly seep through my heather-gray shirt. I hate the drag of my sweatpants against the humid breeze. I hate the rhythm of my ponytail penduluming against the back of my head, always one beat behind my steps. I hate my sweat-soaked clothing, how it suctions to my back and arms and hangs heavily everywhere else. I hate that I keep picturing my red, blood-infused face in my head, and the slight bounce of my cheeks as I run. I hate the sweat that slithers through my eyebrows and pools threateningly on the edge of my eyelashes. I hate the rock that ends up in the arch of my right shoe, stabbing my already tender feet. I hate that my music won’t go any louder, or drown out the constancy of the hate.

By the end of my run, I hate that I can’t run any longer. I miss synchronizing my steps with the beat of each song. I miss feeling my heart pound blood into the rest of my body, being able to feel the strength of my pulse in my neck and my fingers and my feet. I miss the predictability of each step on the track. I miss forcing myself to forget about everything else going on in my life to concentrate on the track ahead of me. I miss the synthesis of each muscle and nerve and bone and cell orchestrating the rhythm pushing my body forward. I miss the war between my body and my mind, and that sense of victory knowing that both have won.