Young Writers Society

The half of my sanity that traced itself around the cold pavement froze as soon as it had appeared. I was lost without a sound or care. I did not like the place I was, and yet methodically my feet continued to hit the pavement in rhythmic motion; I could not cry for help; my breaths were deep.

How could this be called living? One talks of being alone, but it surely seems as if there is always someone there to pick up the pieces and mold a broken puzzle back together. But not now. I stretched my paces as I turned towards the hill. Judging eyes glazed over my muddled strides but nobody gave a second look. I was alone. Actually alone. The cool breeze of the night air held fast in my lungs, clinging to whatever aspect of humanity was still left, stinging my throat in a warning of what was to come. Of what was certain. My fear of solitude grew, and I ran, and I ran, but it never waned a spark of doubt. I knew its arrival was inevitable, but something inside me cried to push on. And so in the darkness that surrounded my meek self-worth I increased my pace, becoming more of the person by which I wanted to rid, developing into the dirty woman who lay at night with the man who consumed my thoughts.

My hair turned dark and rigid, its splitting ends rounding my shoulders and plummeting deep to my waist. My face broke out and stretched wider, my eyes illustrated a light hazel that was direly different from my solemn blues. I became skinnier and out of shape. Wheezing, I continued to sprint, but my knees were more knobby and I began to sob. The tears poured out of my newly shaped eyes and represented the last of which I was…of who I wanted to be.

I was only halfway up the hill. It towered in front of me as a barrier- I would never reach the top. It increased in size and laughed at me as I panted in its presence. It knew I was unaided and unaccompanied. It blew my tangled hair aside.

I turned around for a moment, not expecting what to see. Not thinking of my past.

I was humiliated. What lay before me were my inadequate thoughts, my incorrect assumptions, my pathetic attempts to win over someone who wanted to only be my friend. I stood in this new, dying body and watched as my prior experiences wound their way into the wind. The hill’s mouth blew and the memories floated upward, caressing the grass’ wings, untouchable.

At that moment I could speak. It was not my voice, it was hers, but it spelled out my pain just as simply, and probably more beautifully than I could have ever put it. My scream died out when the wind picked up, but it didn’t matter. In her body I picked up my speed and charged straight forward although I knew I would never succeed in my climb. Her petite figure made my jogging difficult, but not impossible. The woman I had hated for so long clung to my spirit and allowed me to make the journey.

Sweating, I ran after myself, after my past. The reminisces were faster and more durable than my fragile self, but they managed to stay just within my sight. My feet collided with the pavement, repeatedly stealing nature’s passion around me. The hill’s mocking face turned into one of fright, to one of human fear.

He stood, appalled, his curious face cut by the knife in my eyes. In her eyes?

I blew right by.

Closing her eyes for a brief moment, I allowed the wind to graze my back. It came in strong gusts, stronger than anything I’d be able to fight. But for some reason, I didn’t want to fight anymore. For the first time, it felt as if the wind was on my side.

I allowed her eyes to open again, only to see the lost times floating up into the bleak darkness. I did not cry out. I did not reach.

My hill melted away into a pasture, instantly collapsing me upon the tall grasses. For one second, I was completely frozen. My hands wrapped around my body, my hands, and I saw out of my eyes my naked skin glowing in the presence of the moon. The only articles I had left were my shoes, torn and ragged from the jog.

I lay naked for a moment. The hardest thing anyone could ever do was be alone, truly alone, dealing with their past in a constructive way. It was not looking towards the future, not for the next person or position or dream, all along it was simply finding the courage to be completely solitary. To be alone.

I stood up and began running again.