Thoughts in Italics
The
race begins and all that is seen is a puff of smoke. In that half of an
instant the silence that was once unheard throughout the field a few
seconds prior was now echoing with cheers and yells of encouragement. A
thunder of hundreds upon hundreds of feet hit the now shaking grass.
The field is limitless and extends into a very distant sunrise. Hills
and curves can be seen along with a line of self proclaimed die hard
fans who's yells reach and shake the heavens causing and raising hell.
The runners have no idea how long the race will last or why they are
running it, but none the less they still race.
In the
beginning a few fall and stay down as others pass them by. Out of these
fallen runners at the starting line few get back up. Those that do not
are left on the field to watch and wonder what could have been. To
wonder if the circumstances were different whether or not they would
have finished, or even won the competition. In the end they are left
with their thoughts and a conscience full of questions.
Many
sprint off and try to take the lead. A few, a very few, out run the
pack and gain some distance on their competitors. As these few sprint
towards the rising sun the crowd sees their spotless running shoes,
never before worn uniform and know they cannot, will not, be stopped.
At least, so they think.
They forget this is a
race and no one, except God, can predict the outcome.
The
crowd loves these few exceptional human beings. They yell louder and
with more passion.In turn it pushes the rest of the pack onward in
hopes of catching these imaginary titans to gain the same glory,
attention, and respect as the runners ahead of them.
Soon
the masses of sweating flesh, beating hearts, exhausted legs and lungs
get far enough away from the starting line to say, and feel, they have
truly begun the race.
The
last few that lag behind receive little to no encouragement, but still
they push on.
The
race continues.
In the
beginning the course is clearly marked and the crowd is still thick
along the side lines, yelling and cheering. The competitors know where
to go, and how to get there, but as days go by the crowds begin to
thin, and wane, until there are only a few spectators left on the
course.
But
still the race continues and runners continue to run.
Spirits become tired, many want to stop, and some do. Some fall
to the earth after exhausting themselves in the beginning and not
having any reason to keep their feet moving across the grass and soil.
A few fall back, retaining the positions they originally had, but the
categorization of people is no longer so easy to determine. The line of
runners stretch back for miles with, in most cases, large and numerous
gaps, and the leader of the pack alternated with no definite winner in
sight.
The
runners felt the constant green carpet underneath their rubber soles
with metal spikes and saw it extend in front of them for an eternity.
The crest of every hill was accompanied with the hope that the finish
line could be seen somewhere, anywhere, in the distance. And with each
hill came the realization that the only thing to look forward to was
more land, and the knowledge of knowing they had to keep looking and
moving forward. Legs became lead, arms became jello, lungs became fire,
and spirits began to fall. The brightness that glowed in all their eyes
as dawn broke on that first morning began to fade, and many were a
heartbeat and a stumble away from falling out.
But
still the race continued and runners continued to run.
Some
stopped to rest for a moment and never took another step. Some cried
for help as they are were passed by runner after runner in hopes of a
savior that would never come. People were pushed off the course, to the
ground, or tripped by other runners. Many retaliated by committing the
same crime, others stayed in the spot where they were wronged to hate
the injustice they were forced to endure, and very few did nothing at
all. These few dusted themselves off, found their composure, and began
to run again only to be dealt the same underhanded blow time and time
again.
Everything imaginable that can be done to hurt another individual was
done on that field. Acts of kindness did exist, but they were too
exhausting and in many cases went unrecognized. They just continued to
move and push and grind forward without purpose or meaning, but still
the race continued.
The
cheers and applause of the exuberant crowd were not even a distant
echo. Many had forgotten the race still existed, and others simply did
not care.
The remaining few runners
numbered less than a quarter of the original occupants on that starting
line so many miles ago. The weather had changed many times and the
runners had learned to pace themselves in all terrain and in all
circumstances. They were tired to the point of death from exhaustion,
but they still refused to stop. What drove them now was something more
than fame or glory. These few individuals did not seek respect and they
had stopped looking for the finish line so long ago they had forgotten
it even was said to have existed. They sought something else. They did
not know what it was, but they felt it and they knew the truth of what
it was.
The
course had stopped telling them where to go. They followed their own
path.
In
each one of these few remaining athletes was a look in the eyes that
showed years of different landscapes, millions of minutes of thought,
and countless seconds of coming to an understanding of a question they
did not know the answer to. If you could take one look into their eyes
you could understand that they were not running to win the race
anymore.
They
were running to finish it.
The
finish line existed where ever it was they stopped and lost hope. This
is what beat them. Not the people running around, and next to them. You
would see they refused to be beat and to give up was not an option.
They would continue to run until the last breath had escaped their
lungs and they had no strength left to move. They would finish the race.
And the race continued and the runners continued to run.
Thoughts in Italics ~ Sequence ~ Writing in the Margins
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Contact
Kenneth Rogers at
oliverlee2007@yahoo.com