My neighborhood is dark and well-treed. There are almost no lights through these streets and the sidewalks are, in places, buckled with old roots. I don't know these out-croppings; though I run these streets, my knowledge is not anatomical. But I can't NOT think these dreamy thoughts: how I am asleep and dreaming upright on my legs because I know the ground is jutting, warped and yawning under me in the dark and I have no expectations of where then my feet will find me...
...not like when you slam down on the landing because you thought there was an extra stair left... the opposite of that like you float along without needing to know where the ground will be and therefor the ground is where it always was and then you too are where you are meant to be and, AHA it is like that running dream, you know?
Out of the neighborhood now I am running along better lit streets with sidewalks as flat and smooth as glass. I have left the dark streets behind confident that I KNOW EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT RUNNING BLINDLY. The very moment I tuck the thought away my foot catches on the opened umbrella of a dandelion seed JUST LAYING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SIDEWALK and suddenly, after years and years and years of running down dark rutted streets, I trip. I fall and I die.
No, just kidding. I fall, like really fall, hard skittering and roll like a burrito (that is to say, efficiently) so that I am surprised to sit upright and disappointed that there is only a few small droplets of blood on my elbow... and then I run. I run because everytime I think I know everything, or anything even, I realize on the skid that I don't know anything at all. In all my years of running, leaping boulders and curbs, I've never ever fallen till I thought I thought I knew. I'll say imprecisely, I don't know a damn thing. And this is a hard lesson for a girl whose first words were a defiant scream: I KNOW!
So I get up and I run like blood is flowing like the Rubicon and I run as if anger would be irrelevant and I run and I run while in my mind the blood gushing down my arm and down my leg washes away every moment that passes in its torrents.
And it works for me while, really, the tiny droplet of blood on my elbow is already coagulated, scabbed and healed by the time I get home.
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