I sat, I walked, and I dreamt.

I never ran much. I was supposed to, but days went by where I could only sit at the end of my garden, whistling Piano Man to any old bird who could hear me.

In my imagination, I dashed through warm light in the meadows, my hands becoming as refringent as water droplets. It was a dance against the dark dirt when I floated for a moment in between those leaps of faith. The wind became oil paint smeared across the canvas around me in monumental colors. It did not matter how fast I ran, but rather, it mattered how the deer ran alongside me and how the world turned in rhythm with my steps. In my dreams, running always seemed like an exciting escapade or a moment in time to become free.

In reality, I found myself in competition with the dust on the track, the pressure building up on me to just win something. Although I knew my family only meant well—their large banners overtaking the forgotten crowds behind them and their voices hoarse from screaming, "Faster, faster!"—my legs only carried my body as long as I was scared of disappointing them. In these races, the ground seemed to dig into my feet as if it were gravel, and the straight line ahead suddenly became tortuous. The wind echoed in my skull as all I could think about was how soon it would be over. I barely felt any emotion when the hazy trees went past me or when I made it to the finish line. I had not known that I looked so determined to my family when I wanted nothing more than to return to my reclusive structure of thinking and weeping. I knew it was no good to think of better things. It only made those moments on the track seem even emptier.

My yearning for ideas that slept in the corners of my mind and only lived in storybooks was my downfall. Sleepless nights, when I tumbled into richer fantasies of the ignorant man, became my regular routine. I thought of running past open fields that stretched underneath clouds of mist, where no eyes lingered on me. I leapt into a different life where mountains called my name, and I chased after something bigger than silly competitions. It felt foolish to imagine these things, because I knew it was an idealization. Why couldn’t running be as good as I wanted it to be? I solemnly stood up from my unsteady bed with a colder heart each day.

Pushing myself to keep running became impossible. I was preparing to run in one of the biggest races in my country, but all I could do was stare numbly at the flowers in my garden—they seemed to peacefully wave in the gusts of wind, their yellow and pink shapes becoming blurs. Focusing on the rhythmic interventions in nature brought me some kind of peace. I felt as if the entire house could swallow me up and hide away my sorrowful body, and I would not mind. I would leave the record player on for days to play songs that spoke my words, as I sank in beneath the floorboards.

The day of the race arrived sooner than I thought. My mother said I was oh-so-gallant; my father looked at me with pride. The dawning of the situation creeped up on me, and the clouds seemed grayer than ever. Before I could even reconsider, I was suddenly crouching on the running track, with a tightened grasp on the ground and a cautiously beating heart. It was now or never. There was a countdown in my head. Or was it in real life? Five, four, three—the numbers started to float in front of me. My breathing was shallow. For a moment, it felt like my heart stopped and my stomach was on fire. Then I heard the flare gun. Ringing in my ears. My body dashed in front of the others, and I watched as I ran with a mighty passion, gracefully slamming down on the path with newfound determination!

I watched. I imagined. But in actuality, I was still crouched down in

position.

The other racers ran past me in a painful chorus of fast footsteps. My body refused to move. Run, you idiot, run! I thought to myself. It didn’t help, though, because minutes went by where I stared at the grass and then up at the other runners. I wanted to kick myself. What was wrong with me? I felt the shame build up as I caught the eyes of my parents on me. And yet, no amount of shame could push me to run. The daisies on the field suddenly seemed so beautiful, waving to me to come down and hold them tight. My motivation had run out. I was exhausted, and my brain had stopped working. So, I did the only thing I knew how to do without even thinking. I sat down where I stood and dreamt.

I do not remember exactly what I thought about as I closed my eyes. But I know I felt something indescribable. It was a feeling like no other. For the first time in my life, I accepted defeat. I didn’t feel ashamed about where I sat, in front of the shadows of my audience. It’s possible I thought about what I would do with my life next and how exciting that was. I found myself in a type of freedom I had longed for since childhood. My head was filled with ideas; suddenly running didn’t seem so important anymore. A part of me was sad I didn’t run, but I knew there was no sense in completing something I couldn’t even dream about at night.

I never ran much. I never wanted to—at least, not as a performance. Days went by where I wrote stories of people running from things they could not catch (or sat in my garden watching other people run by). My parents did not know how to react. They asked me, “When are you running again?” I was not sure. Perhaps I would run again when I found the places that wanted me to. In the meantime, I sat, I walked, and I dreamt.