The man at the post office asked me a good question when I went to get my passport renewed
One that got me thinking
It may have been a joke, when I think on it but I am a very literal lady sometimes
He said “What are you running from?”
I get that a lot
15 countries in 4 years
No home for the same amount of time
Why, when there are warm comfortable places I could be living in, do I send myself out of a house to live in a half built house in the jungle?
Or a small mining town in the middle of nowhere in the rain in Winter?
What happens when the music stops?
Why do I choose situations that leave me sleeping on a cardboard box in Barcelona?
Why do I put my body under the pressure I do despite the pain I feel?
Why do I sleep on hard ground instead of in a nice house somewhere?
What am I looking for?
I say I am going towards something but what is that?
I say I am looking for community but there is community everywhere I go
These are all good questions
I guess there is a kind of insanity in me that I don’t quite understand, in the end
A kind of lunacy that keeps me moving
A boredom that can only be distracted so long by television and following current events
By planting gardens and busy work
By keeping safe and warm
In the quiet I miss the adventure
As my restless mind clamours to be entertained and I get bored of playing with my monkey
Because the person I am running from always comes with me
I run but that crazy lady always packs my bags
I go, but I wake up with her and her crazy ideas
Because the lady I run from is me
I can never run fast enough though and I always catch up
I’m running from old age, but the old lady in the mirror just keeps peeping out
I’m running from fear but somehow when I pack it always comes with me
Running from depression but when I get there that black dog has gotten off the leash and come with me
Running from my past but soon even that catches up with me
Because the monsters of the dark live inside my mind
In the stillness I see them looking back at me
It is also how you frame it, I suppose
Is my glass half empty or half full?
I think it is both but it is also really fragile like life itself
Like peace itself it can be shattered in a moment
I am running from ideas and the thing about words is that they can build a nest inside your brain forming loops that can come up and choke you when you are least expecting it
I am running from pain and suffering but that is a race I can never win
When I am a woman in the wild I miss things like a shower, a warm bed and a washing machine
I am never really clean and my clothes never quite look or smell fresh
But when I live in a box I miss the great outdoors
I am trying to move towards something but I never quite arrive
In the end, the music always stops and it is me that I am left looking at
Everywhere you go, there you are
You can run, but you can never hide from the self
One day when we are old we will be only the stories that we tell
What will my story be?
Am I the bold adventurer I say I am or the sad lady I often see in the mirror?
Where does this all end?
