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perspectives

run

R u nr u n

7

So I must run. I want to draw, I’d like to paint, I feel like writing. But I cannot. I’m not allowed to be creative. I can only ever follow orders. His orders. And his orders are always the same.

run

ru n

Step after step. Breath after shallow breath. My lungs burn. My eyes water. My arms cramp. My feet bleed. But I cannot stop. He has told me to run.

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I hate to run. I feign injury and illness alike to escape the painful chore. I do not want to run. “Run”, he tells me. So I run. What am I running from? Where am I running to? Why am I running? I’m running from him. To him. For him. I do not want to run. “You must run” he says. I ask why. He says it’s good. That I’m good. That I have talent. I do not have talent. I have practice “Be proud” he yells, claps his hands, and pats my back. I am not proud. He is proud. For he made me. Though, I did not want to be made. And I do not want to run. “Keep running” he says. So I run.

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“Run” So I run. Again and again and painfully again, I run. But I am not good enough. I cannot stop. I am never good enough. So I can never stop. I do not want to run. Please don't make me run. You know I hate to run. He hears me cry. He sees the tears roll down my reddened cheeks. He looks down at me. He speaks. But I'm breathing too heavily to hear. Though I understand him perfectly. He has told me to run.

perspectives

8