Running

That aged dread whose deadline is cut short.

Running out of time—I feel like I’m running out of time. There was so much I wanted to do. There was so much time. The opportunities were endless, but now it’s like the very thought of an endeavor leaves me with a gaping soul. Books and books and books to read. Subjects and subjects and subjects to study. Work to be done, conversations to be had, outings to be experienced, activities and clubs and sports, leadership roles and internships and trips and treasures. Everything is gone. There was always tomorrow, but yesterday grew, and now there’s hardly any tomorrow to go around.

I have been let down—like that rush of steam that leaves me. That fleeting, losing feeling when I slow my pace, breathe hard, stop pushing. They pass me one by one: on my left, then my right. It’s all flowing away. The pistol shot was so long ago, and the end was so far away. Why not rest a little while? Why not stop here? It’s too hard. I don’t feel like it. It doesn’t seem good here. The timing just isn’t right. I feel so tired, I lie down, die down there. It is over. It was useless. Why didn’t I try?

“No… I’ll try at this, I won’t end this. This I will write. I will write it well. That did not do it justice.”

Back then looked endless and generous, unfurling like promises. ‘Why, there will be—so much time—for everything!’ Everything? City skylines as Books stacked, subjects braided into late-night study, toil and talk and kickoffs and circles, captaincy and council and quests and little pieces of opulence tucked into pockets. Tomorrow was a bucket without a bottom.

Now even the deliberation of starting leaves this man’s chest hollow and his mind withered clean. I can feel the air leave me—steam venting from a kettle—while the crowd blurs. They slip past on the left. Then the right. Their strides are easy, and mine are a grind of breath and grit. I taste metal. I count heartbeats. I bargain.

Maybe I could slow for a lap. Maybe stop. The finish line is a rumor; the shot that sent us flying is old news. This hurts. I don’t feel like it. The timing isn’t right. If I wait, the wind might shift. If I wait, the stitch might loosen.

If I wait, the race will end without me… It will soon, I’m so far behind.

Time doesn’t take things all at once. It erodes. It sands the edge off desire until “later” feels merciful and “now” feels impossible. That’s the trick. It’s never a villain with a clock and a scythe. It’s a soft-handed thief that says, You deserve a breather. And sometimes you do. Sometimes mercy is walking. But sometimes mercy is one more ugly stride.

So here is what I know in the space between two steps:

• The track is not endless; that’s what makes the lap matter.

• The passersby are not the problem; the bargain is.

• Tomorrow is not a bucket; it is a thimble. It spills when you look away.

I don’t have a perfect second wind. I have a choice that keeps happening every two heartbeats. Knees up. Arms low. Eyes on the line painted fifteen yards ahead, not the ribbon at the end of the world.

There was a time I believed the work would meet me when I felt ready. Books would open themselves. Conversations would wait in neat rows. Doors would hold in their frames until I arrived. I believe something smaller now and somehow truer: readiness is what accumulates when you refuse to stop. It’s what settles into your legs after the part where you wanted to quit.

So I take one more foul-tasting breath. I plant, I drive, I lift. The heat doesn’t leave, but it sears as it loosens its cauterizing grip. The hollow is still there, though swollen now, but it echoes with a different sound—the thud of a body choosing.

People still pass me. I pass a few back. The lap counter turns.

The starter pistol lives in the same place as the finish tape: somewhere outside of my control. The race is this: the split second where I decide again. Not later. Now. Not forever. This step.

Knees up. Arms low. Eyes ahead.

Go.

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