By Natalie Davis
I race through the woods, with my eyes blurred by tears and my lungs burning as the cold air enters my chest. My mind and my feet are stuttering in fear and grave anticipation of what could happen next. Will I be strong enough to face my demons or will they swallow me whole with as little as a taste of my deep regret and dismay.
The days feel long, but in reality, I watch the clock wishing that an hour would pause and let me live outside this prison we call time. I wait. I wait for those around me to catch up. I wait for my brother, my friends, my professors, my classmates, my coworkers, the man in the grocery store holding my vanilla ice cream, I wait for all of them to see the look on my face and the time that has eerily snuck behind my eyes and thwarted my youth. I wait for the people to see someone else, a hollowed out trunk that continues to grow but on the inside really wishes that water would fill the hole. The hole. The hole that should have something with passion or heat or fire that carries you through your days and pulls you up the mountainous climbs, and shelters you through the darkness and despair of waiting. Waiting. What an awful word. What an awful place of limbo that captures our minds and our dreams and holds us, keeps us, suffocates us. This journey through time, through time standing still, through time abandoning us to fend for ourselves. We find no refuge through time, it is no friend, it is no enemy, it is apathetic to our needs and our desires. We ourselves are ticking time bombs. Our body is our worst enemy, it fights against us each day, dying a little bit, more and more, slipping away from youth.
Of course my race through the woods will find me at the end of the path with the sun shining on my red cheeks, and the sweat creeping down my back reminding me of the work my body has to do to keep me going, to cry out and suffer as my limits are pushed. So I pause, and I wait, for my body to catch up to my mind and carry me once again away from this place.