Some days I would just like to pick a direction and keep running as fast as possible. Just to feel the muscles strain, just to feel the air rushing past me, listen to my heaving breath as my lungs strain to expand and gather enough of the air I need to keep propelling myself forward. Keep running until I'm too exhausted, just to feel alive. It's better than living in this constant fatigue, better than the constant daze of day after day, compressed by the smothering efficiency of the machine and the clanging drone of the city turning it's wheels, moving it's gears, the noxious weight settling into the joints and creases of my mind, where it slows everything down.
I move between sections of this enormous system, struggling to fill in my role, overwhelmed by the neon brilliance of all that must be filtered through me, the eye of the needle. I grow tired of the innate weakness of my mind and body, creaking and cracking under the bone-crushing weight of task after task. Each one harboring some n-dimensional complexity, a world of its own pressed into the space of a capsule for me to swallow, and then deconstruct into its elements as it unfurls it's full volume in the ill-suited caverns of my brain. And all of this further complicated by the necessity of physical existence, the logistics of moving the particular parcel of tissue, blood and bones that are wired to interface me with the universe, from one point to another. A parcel so inadequate that it grows exhausted by the simple exertion of sitting for hours at a time on a train, hurtling through the veins of the city in a metal box.
We are just so many heavy particles drifting through time with the speed of pebbles sinking in a bottomless ocean. I can feel myself eroding, I can feel time sliding by with increasing speed, leading me eagerly forward into decrepitude and senility. All the while I'm weighed down by the limits of existing. I have long since tired of barriers, I have long since tired of these forces exerting themselves on me, the net result being equivalent to a sort of stagnation. My own weakness holds me still on a dull plateau devoid of liveliness. The liveliness, the necessity of forward propulsion that results from growing, from creating things that are meaningful, from overcoming the very inertia that attracts us towards the easier path, of simply lying back and decaying. But I am so easily lured into a stupor, hypnotized by the electric radiance shining down on me from higher planes.
