floating online,
touching grass,

The fastest runners have the smoothest strides


If life is not a race, why am I always running? Why am I always rushing? Rushing to do. Rushing to meet. Rushing to read. To write. To build. To say. To share.

Rushing to do everything but just be. Why can I not just be? Be present. Be here.

Why do I rush, knowing fully well that the one thing I will not catch up with is this present moment. Knowing that once it has slipped away, it is gone.

Yet even as I think this, I know the clock is ticking. I don’t have much time, I must keep going.

They tell me working quickly is important. But what they didn’t tell was when I started sprinting, I couldn’t stop. I feel a compulsive urge to keep running. And run faster. And faster. And faster.

And even when it feels like my legs are about to give out from underneath me, I am compelled to keep forging ahead. My eyes set on the dark, twisted path ahead, propelling me forward. And maybe that’s good. Progress is good, is it not? How will I move forward if I stop? What about all of the people that are ahead of me? How will I catch up?

And I know that we are running our own races, but it doesn’t matter. I convince myself I can run faster. That I should run faster.

I must run faster.

And I’ve been so busy throwing myself into the void that is the path ahead of me, that I realize I forgot to look around. I forgot the shapes of the mountains I passed, the hills I climbed, the scents I took in, the rivers I crossed. And finally my legs give out and I collapse. I stop moving forward entirely.

Only then do I look around. And holy shit, it’s beautiful! It’s gorgeous. What else have I missed trying to blindly move forward?

And I get back up. And I start running again as hard as I can.

Because I was born to run.

But this time, I remember to look around. I see the stars twinkle and the rivers run. I hear the birds chirp and the dogs bark. And finally I stop thinking so hard about running faster. My journey is not finished, but I’m no longer afraid to stop to take it all in.

Because I realize the absence of motion does not always mean the absence of progress.

My strides are smooth.

My rhythm is fluid.

I’m running faster than ever before.