“This life is not my own.”
The words met my ears like a baton meets the waiting hand of a relay runner. The timing was perfection, an exquisite dance of movement, practiced, but in the moment unchoreographed. Now I run, run, run. There is nothing else to do. Run like the wind. Run though the wind. Run to the finish. The race is not my own, though I have trained for it. The steps are not my own, though my frame claims them. The path is not my own, though I travel along it. I am a part of something larger. I am only a part, but I want to make my moment count. Someday I will pass the baton. Then I will rest before I run again. One day I will stop. Disappear. But the baton will travel onward still. It will land in open hands and it will soar on feet with wings. Ever forward, ever onward, always achieving more.
(Originally posted on my old blog, Interim Arts, on September 3, 2013)