Late Nights and Poems About Running

I have work tomorrow. I intend to wake up at 5 am, or a little before, and do morning yoga, journal, wash my face, change my clothes and drive to work, where I will attempt to teach teenagers about historical events and dead people.

It is after 11 pm now. Typically, by this point in the night, I have been sleeping for at least an hour and a half, warm and cuddled under my comforter and sheets. Sometimes I have nightmares, sometimes I have nice dreams about puppies.

Instead, I am writing this blog post, and sharing a poem I wrote in the span of 30 minutes. Part of me doesn't want to share this poem; it seems insignificant and unedited. Did I work my hardest on it? Is it worth sharing? Is it meaningful or meaningless? Does posting the poem make me less serious as a writer?

I decide the answer to these questions is to simply share the poem, regardless of my worries. Perhaps it is silly. Perhaps people will not understand it. Perhaps.... perhaps nothing. The questions and the worries are meaningless. The poem is important to me, and therefore is worth sharing.

Everything that is important to us is worth sharing.

While jotting down this poem, I realize it is more than a poem about running; it is a poem about life, and particularly the patterns in life. It is about the patterns of happiness and depression, health and sickness, the beginning and the ending of relationships, the start and end of life. Running, somehow (probably thanks to endorphins) gives me comfort in this pattern, even in the hard parts.

When I run, I focus on my feet, and how they land.
                                            On the    outside.     On the    outside.     On the    outside.     On the   outside.
When I run, I focus on my knees, and how they straighten.
                                            Turn    out.    Turn    out.    Turn    out.    Turn    out.
When I run, I focus on breathing, and how deeply I inhale.
                                             Fill    in.      Fill    in.      Fill    in.      Fill    in.
The hill, it raises.
                                                        It descends.
The pain, it begins.
                                                        It ends.
I start, chilly.
                                                        I stop, sweating.
It's a pattern. It's a pattern. 
                                                        It's a pattern. It's a pattern.

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