Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Title 1

The grass crumbles against the balls of my bare feet as I run up the green knoll. I can't discern if the ground is damp or if it's just an illusion of the cold. My cutoff shorts and t-shirt don't even try to protest the cold, it easily seeps through the cloth. One step after another, I concentrate fully on simply moving forward. My feet crunch against new patches of grass, smothering the unlucky blades that fall in their path. I wonder if the tiny blades are capable of cutting my feet. If I step at just the right angle, will a thousand, microscopic needles slice my flesh open? The thought wavers through my mind, seemingly inconsequential. But the train continues forth. If I tear my foot open on the grass, how much blood will seep out? Will it be enough to end the uncontrollable spasms that shudder my bones every few steps? Will it be enough to stop my heart beating? My emotions waver and I can feel my careful indifference, my quintessential numbness, slip ever so slightly. I rush to re-conceal my mind within its cottony haven, to extinguish the haphazard thoughts that all lead to the same destination. Despite my carefully calculated mental discernment, I cannot control my body. It shakes and spasms, appearing to any onlooker as though I am possessed. But I know better. The goose bumps on my arms can only be one thing; my soul trying to escape, trying to out run this body that cannot run fast enough. I wish it could succeed, to escape the hollowed walls of my body as they reverberate masochism. It is a prison.

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