I wish I could write purely for you. I wish I could lay my emotions for you on paper for you to rip apart and dissect until there is nothing left of it. I haven't found a way to depict an accurate image of what burns inside of me, what soaks my skin, what calms it and what unravels it.
Air. You can feel it cursing through your veins, your arteries and your heart as you race up a hill that seems endless. It is your oxygen and It is your toxin. Your addiction and your solution to survival.
Fire. It is the path you walk through. When you are sprinting and you feel like your heart wants to drop out of your chest, the pangs of dry dust settling into your throat. An endless desert with no direction and unmistakably, no footpath.
Water. The feeling of satisfaction that leads you out of the misery of temptation to quit. The quench you need to be a little stronger, a little more efficient and thus to fight a little harder. Counting the stomps of your feet hitting the ground and willing yourself to push further. Just this last time until you build the will power to lie to yourself once more. 'This is the last one'. Fully aware of the hurdles you have yet to jump and the pain you must endure to finish the journey.
Earth. Damp but comforting. Luke warm but refreshing like the wind on a mild summer's day. A blanket that protects you from birth until death. A shield that gives you a reason to carry on. For if there is no ticking clock, there would be nothing but unsatisfying emptiness present in the world. A feeling of incompletion. A torturous dream of immortality. So we move. We crawl, we walk, we jog and then we sprint in the tiny hopes that we will reap the rewards at the finish line. Unaware that the rewards lay hidden in the journey. In the sweat that pours from your soul, the willingness to love fiercely and the power to fight ferociously.
When the world thinks you're crazy but the elements understand you.
