All day, a tangle of anxieties, a knot of the galloping to-do list firmly ensconced in my gut. I get nothing done, on a week when I needed to get so much done. Inertia drags through me like a rake, like a trawler, like lead. My face in the mirror like death exited a cave after a winter slumber, forgot her airs, was painted sallow by winter, I longed to bury the day in the garbage and start over tomorrow.
But the running shoes beckoned, the mild temperatures, the strange industrial back streets of Bushwick that promise you a moment to yourself. So you defied the late hour, the dark night, the howling to-do list, the shrinking hours and their demands, and you went out into the night.
I come home with pink cheeks, with smiling lungs, come home with a mind on fire and poetry in my veins. Come home unconcerned with my deficiencies. I sit down instead to write, to drink bourbon and feel my soul float elsewhere, this is a gift.
This trick has saved your life before.
There is no reason why it wouldn't
again.
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