My mind is an art gallery

that never opened,

due to ongoing construction

and overthinking.

The paintings have acquired dust

and memories that became

door stops, propping open

the doorways to what once was.

The statues are silhouettes

of a time before mental illness,

stuck in place with tarps thrown

over them, irrelevant and moth eaten.

The gallery has only

one redeeming quality:

the windows,

which let light in

despite the ongoing

dilemma of identity crisis.

“I need you inside of me,” he whined, desperation clinging to his words, “please, God, I need you.”

His hunger was unbearable, but still she forced him to watch while she finished- now visibly wet and dripping onto the counter. His desire grew insatiable with each moment. He wanted to succumb to his carnality, to have just one taste. She would punish him harshly, but even that was better than this agonizing wait. She was getting closer, and he wanted her to go faster- but to rush would ruin the satisfaction of waiting. Then, she was finished. The waffle iron beeped its monotone melody. He placed her onto the table, beside his coffee and a generous bottle of syrup.

“What a great breakfast,” he thought.

My name is W.G, and this is how I came up with one of the most famous catchphrases of all time.

I was wading my way through the first chapters of my novel, my mind spilling word after word, sentence after sentence. However, I reached that land where the foliage was rarefying and a barren dry desert awaited me beyond the horizon. That part of the process where the excitement starts to fade and you begin to wonder whether or not you should abandon the whole thing, quit writing and just enjoy a simple life like my fellow human beings. Nevertheless, I kept marching on, heart full of doubt, finger joints layered with rust, and not before long I had already bumped into a colossal writer’s block. The stream of my ideas came to a halt before the great void, the supreme vacuum, the Leviathan of all writers that devoured every single shred of inspiration that crossed their way. Of course I had to fight him, I had to slay him, or else I wouldn’t have finished the novel that would later on turn into one of the greatest works of cinema. Only, I didn’t know how to, at the time.

To be fair, my task at my hands was no easy feat, even for the most fluid of storytellers. I was supposed to write down the part where the protagonist undergoes a transformation, The transformation. Where he becomes someone different, stronger, braver; you get the gist. Let me tell you on a little secret before we proceed: one cannot write successfully such a transformation unless one has experienced it himself. In other words, one must go through the necessary pain to become a good writer; that is the first act of initiation, the first ritual, the true baptism of fire: blood must be spilled. And fortunately, I have bled enough.

It was a simple equation, though I couldn’t quite figure how to formulate it correctly at the time. It goes something like this: the necessary amount of agony that is required to catalyze such metamorphosis could be best obtained from one single source only, and that is love. Love is the nemesis of pain, his eternal rival, his amaranthine companion. Search for love, and you, my friend, will unearth treasures of pain.

Now I only had to find the right amount of love in my life.

Typewriter on my lap, an ashtray full of cigarette butts on my left, a cold cup of coffee and a half tuna sandwich on my right. I look around, out the window and inside the living room. What time is it? The clock is missing. When she left, she took away everything that belonged to her, and left behind everything that didn’t: her books, her pajamas, her shirts and underwear, her stockings, her shoes and even her cushions (though I don’t know how she came to decide which ones belonged to her and which ones didn’t). And she even took the cat, which was by no means hers alone. As to the photos in the family album—which consisted mainly of two people—she’d also done a perfect job: hers were gone, mine were still there, and the ones we shared were cut in half. Leafing through the album gave me gray pangs, it’s as if I have forever been alone, at home, in my travels and in my dreams. I fully understand what she tried to do. She tried to make it look as if she’d never existed in my life. It’ll make things easier for me to move on. I don’t think she realizes that both the presence and absence of things exert the same strain on our memories. Because when I try to make a cheese panini, and can’t find the panini-press—because she took it—I’ll remember just the same that my wife had been sleeping with my best friend for seven months, and that if she hadn’t confessed on her own free will, I wouldn’t have had the slightest clue about what was going on. She said I had been too focused on my writing. She said she felt abandoned and he made her feel beautiful again. She made a point, the cunt. I had to divorce her.

Maximus, my best friend, my brother in arms, my antagonist—or perhaps I was his antagonist, and he was the protagonist all along—I light another cigarette and think of him. He was always one step ahead of me, in school, in sports, in careers—he was a doctor—however I have always been a better writer than he is, that was the only standing pillar I leaned on whenever the strong winds of his success overwhelmed me and made me feel like shit. Maximus and I loved the same woman, twice.

Thinking of your wife sleeping with another man, picturing another male inside your wife is stifling enough, crushing, annihilating; especially if that man was both your friend and rival. But strangely enough, that wasn’t the pain I remembered that November evening as I tried to write what would later on become one of the most famous catchphrases of all time, but a different kind of pain, one that happened many years ago, when we were ten, Maximus and I.

I’d been madly in love with our classmate, Chloe, and so was Maximus. Of course. If you think about it, that’s why we were very close buddies, him and I, because we’ve had the same taste in music, in movies, in video games, in sodas, and in women. At that age neither of us dared to confess his feelings to Chloe, or to one another (about Chloe). Having feelings for a girl when you are a child is something of extreme secrecy, of extreme sacredness and beauty. I used to throw all my erasers in the river on my way to school only to ask Chloe to lend me hers, and get a chance to talk to her, and then see her smile when I give it back and thank her. You might think that I didn’t have to throw my erasers in the river, but I made an oath to never lie to Chloe. I might lie to many other people, cheat on them, deceive them, but never to Chloe; if I was going to ask her for her eraser, I had to be truly in need of one. It was a matter of principles. Even the Pharaoh who claimed to be God and spilled oceans of innocent blood had a small status of a deity in his room that he kept sacred and prayed to when no one was looking. Chloe was my unsullied deity, Oh Chloe. In my mind and fantasy, I was convinced I was going to marry her when I am old enough, I had all my future figured and laid before me. Sadly enough, the future I had wasn’t that different from the one I’d imagined when I was ten, except that I didn’t marry Chloe. Maximus did. Then divorced her, last year.

How did I lose the fight to Maximus over Chloe you might think? It was a matter of seconds, perhaps even a second. We were going home from school one afternoon, beautiful day, rosy clouds drifted low, birds chirped in the distance, the waft of spring in the air; it was the worst day of my childhood. We were going home from school, and halfway, we came to notice that Chloe and her friend were being bullied from across the street, by a group of older boys from the other neighborhood . They were three, bad boys, sort of speak. The kind you’d avoid and apprehend as a child. But they were on Chloe, my dear Chloe, and I had to do something. At that instant, Chloe saw us, Maximus and I. Her eyes met mine, and I could see a speck of hope growing in those bewitching green pearls. I could see she glimpsed salvation in her frail docile classmates.

It was out of the question by then. The deal was sealed. It didn’t matter how many punches I was going to eat, it didn’t matter how ecchymotic my eyes would look and how badly fractured my nose would be. I braced myself, and was ready to go berserk.

But it was too late.

In the long span of time the nerve signal from my brain took to reach my muscles, Maximus had already took off, and I froze.

It was too late, Chloe had seen who it was to first run to her rescue. Her dark knight had already been decided, and I had realized it. He beat me to it. Maximus pushed one guy, and landed a punch on another, and received a hard kick in the stomach by the third. He managed to land on his feet and took a few steps back, and it was then, like a revelation, like a hymn from the heavens, that I’ve heard the most sweet words to my ears: “Run Maximus, Run!” yelled Chloe. Only, they weren’t for me.

He took off running, and they were right after him, and she kept yelling, with all her might, with all her breath, like a goddess trying to save her mortal hero from a raging Cerberus: “Run Maximus, Run!” And I stood there, in haze, swinging like a pendulum of a handless clock, between worrying about my friend and a killing regret. It should have been me who were running for his life, it should have been for me that those lyrical words were being chanted in the air. But no, they were for my Maximus, who’s speed kept increasing each time she shouted out those words. And I could almost see, for a fleeting second, that he grew shining wings on his back and flew through the oblique line of time and claimed Chloe’s future, and robbed me of mine.

“Run, Maximus. Run!” O, that sweet voice.

The next morning Chloe walked to Maximus, thanked him, felt his stomach, and he confessed. And the next hour they were holding hands sitting on the bench and eating lunch together. For another year, colors diverged from my eyes and faded somewhere in the background. That’s when I first made my acquaintance with pain, met him face to face, shook his hand, and walked home from school with for months on end.

Middle school came and I forgot about Chloe, and so did Maximus (they met again years later in college). But I can still remember that day with great vividness, that day when I first tasted loss and been stung by the unforgiving, aesthetic, blue flames of love. It is etched in the back of my head like an epitaph on the stone of a hollow cold grave. And I did remember it, that day when I tried to write but couldn’t, and looked at the clock but it was missing because my wife took it, because we got divorced, because she cheated on me with Maximus, Mon meilleur ami, Chloe’s ex husband. And I was able to write again.

“Run Forrest, Run!” Jenny shouted, and Forrest ran like he never did, and never stopped.

We don't realize how unaware we are of our words until after they've been spoken aloud. We buzz like bees daily, vomiting up phrases, statements, fragments, exclamations. Running our mouths like a leaky tap or a coat of paint laid on too thick. That's the word- run. So many meanings that we don't even realize we say it.

“Having a busy day there, eh, Parker?”

Parker chuckled at me, leaning back in his rolling chair at a dangerous angle. His desk cubicle was clear and he had a relaxed posture. He volleyed my sarcasm back to me with ease.

“Oh yeah, doing plenty of running around today.” He tensed up after he spoke, as if he had been hit with a rubber bullet from an invisible marksman. He looked at me and stammered out a hasty apology, to which I shook my head.

“It’s fine, Parker. I’m not no language police,” I replied, “Now find some work to do, eh?”

“Yes, for sure. Right away, er, sir.” Parker hunched towards his computer and began clicking away.

Everyone in the office was so careful around me now, I couldn’t stand it. Maybe if I had turned down that promotion all those months ago, things would be different. Who knows, maybe everything would be different. Maybe I could have taken a different route home on that chilly September evening. Maybe the world just runs on luck, and I’d be stuck in this position one way or another. Maybe, maybe, maybe. God knows if I ever had any luck to begin with, it ran out a while ago.

You’d think, the more time people spent around me, the more normal we could speak to each other.

“Morning, ladies,” I said as I entered the break room. It was almost noon, and before my secretary picked up my lunch I wanted to make a quick coffee run. Sure, I could've had her do this for me too, but it felt good to stretch my… well, stretch. I reached up for the pot and carefully refilled my mug.

“Morning,” the women replied in chorus. The three of them had just began lunch, and the youngest one, Amy, was telling everyone about a movie she’d watched recently. I’ve never really been much of a horror buff, but by the sounds of it, Amy sure was. Maybe I should try out some horror movies; God knows that action movies have run their course with me.

Before leaving the room with my topped up drink, I paused by their little table to inquire about this oh-so-scary film.

“Oh, it was so creepy,” said Amy, looking at me with wide eyes. “There was this one part, where the ghost was kind of moving in the background, and when I saw it a chill just ran down my spine,” she rambled on. Amy remained unaware of her words, but her coworkers strained their faces almost in synch, which would’ve been amusing to me if I wasn't internally deep-sighing. Here we go again.

Amy continued, “Don’t you-all just hate that feeling…” Here she stopped. She looked at me with those same wide eyes, but instead of her previous dramatized fear, she was looking at me with a mix of embarrassment and pity.

Wonderful.

“Oh, um, I’m sorry I wasn't thinking before I spoke, I-”

“We often don’t, do we?” I interrupted. Okay, I was feeling snippy. Not at her comment, but at everyone’s reaction. “Its no big deal,” I said, and smiled at the three women. They replied with watery smiles of their own and watched me leave the room slowly. I headed back to my little niche.

My office was your run-of-the-mill Big Boss office. It was swanky, oversized, and new. When first got the space a few months ago, I felt unworthy of such a room. It felt arrogant of me to use it, and I would’ve been just as glad to keep sitting at my old desk surrounded by those flimsy half-walls. Probably best I didn't have to anymore, though; the extra space came in handy now. That might be some type of irony, but I never pondered it that much. I sat, as I always do now, behind the heavy oak desk and sipped on my coffee, contemplating the day’s interactions.

My secretary, Quinn, was the only one I hadn’t yet had an awkward run-in with. I didn’t know if it was because she understood that it wasn't worth worrying about, or if she just lacked tact. Either way, I was perfectly content with it. In fact, I found her undauntedness absolutely refreshing.

“Here you go, boss.” Quinn walked through my open doorway and set a brown take-out bag on my desk.

“You are a blessing in my life, Quinn, this smells like heaven in a bag,” I exaggerated.

“I’m glad,” she smiled at me. “You know, you probably wouldn't be fawning over Chinese food every day if you ran on more than caffeine every morning.”

With that, she slid back to the front desk. That Quinn, always such a tease.

Soon, I thought, everyone will start acting like that again.

Not soon enough though, I knew.

The next morning, I found myself rolling out of the elevator at most convenient time. A woman was loudly chatting by her desk, located fairly close to the elevator. As I entered, the office chatter lapsed just enough for everyone to hear her speak. In fact, she was nearly yelling.

“...been running my head against the wall!”

Everyone in the office immediately fell into that awkward-pity-silence that was becoming far too familiar lately. They looked down at me, literally, because many of them were standing up. The woman looked at me and began speaking, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

“Realize, yeah, yeah,” I interrupted. This had to stop.

“Listen, I know things have changed lately, but I need you all to stop with the censoring. It’s like when I got promoted and you all had to get used to that, so why is this so much harder? If you want to tell me that your nose is runny, or your running out of something, or even that you ran a 5k yesterday, I don't care!”

I threw my arms up. Everyone stayed silent, so I kept going.

“So what, I can't run? Hell, I can run, where it counts. I’m running a business here. Running a business without working legs. Ha! That should be my new slogan.”

There was an awkward chuckle, and when people realized I wasn't really mad, the tension in the room relaxed. Still, no one was speaking, until Quinn stood up from behind her counter.

“Well, this was entertaining, but I say that we all get back to work before we run this place into the ground!”

I smiled up at her from my chair, and she winked at me. Maybe I hadn't run out of luck after all.

When I was young, I thought running was something you only do for sport. Now, in my 29 years old, I have learned there are different ways of running.

I started ‘running’ from logic when I dated my ex. He was relentless in pursuing me, and against my better judgement, I eventually gave in. It was a series of emotional abuse and bigotry that I was blinded to. For two years I was trapped in a toxic relationship.

My second ‘running’ is when I slipped into depression right after my graduation. I ‘ran’ from my responsibility as a young adult, who should’ve find a job and be the filial daughter. I still feel guilty until now when I think of those dark years when I could have done something more... Asking help, perhaps. Or talking to my parents, maybe. I didn’t do anything of the sort and let myself be seen as a lazy bum who holed herself up in her room doing nothing.

My third ‘running’ is when I finally decided that I had enough. I needed to get better, I told myself. First thing I did was finding a job. I wasn’t confident in pursuing a job that suited my major since I hadn’t been active and it could bring out questions of the gap years after graduation and the present that I wasn’t ready to answer. I finally settled a job as a Customer Service slash Admin slash Marketing in a company. When I received my first pay, I was happy. I felt good for earning money and be able to buy my own things. However, the working hours took a toll on me and I eventually resigned after working for 11 months there.

I am still ‘running’ until now, even if I wish I could have a better paying job so my family won’t live off of debts here and there. I try, every day, to not ‘run’ away leaving them but instead ‘run’ harder and faster so that I can help them. It is hard, to live as minimally as possible while around me my friends have settled down with high pay jobs and even married. But I tell myself over and over that this will soon pass and we can finally live a little more comfortably.

And maybe, someday we can go traveling like the old days.

We just have to keep 'running', no matter how exhausting it is.

Some people have flying dreams. I have running ones. It's ironic isn't it, the man who can't walk dreams about running? I exaggerate of course, I can walk. Just not well. Age isn't normally kind, and it's kept up its trend with me. They don't exaggerate, kids, arthritis is a bitch. If you combine arthritis with an old knee injury, you get a man who needs a cane to walk seven steps. I'm not bitter about it, though, I know I've had my fun.

Running was never a huge part of my life. I played football through college and was moderately active through my youth and early adulthood. Like most, I'd pick up the hobby of running when my jeans would get a bit too tight, or when I'd have one too many sweets. I never particulary loved the hobby. Running is hard.

Despite this, every other night I wake up running. Well, sometimes I sprint or jog or meander through, but I'm always running. Sometimes I'm getting away from something or running to something, or just running for the hell of it. Still, I'm always running.

I wouldn't say I avoid my problems either. I'm a turn-and-face-it kind of guy, not a run-away-from-my-problems-dude. Macy says it's because I have unresolved conflict in my life and that the running is my body's way of working through it. I'd disagree though, a man in his early 80's shouldn't have too much conflict.

My theory is that it's my body's way of remembering. Even though the location and speed changes every time, it never hurts. My body moves smoothly, crisply, every muscle and tendon working together in harmony. It's magical, and I never seem to stop. I wish I could run that way in my waking life. It just isn't the same. I can't run half as fast as I could at forty, and I can run about three times less of distance. Youth was so clear, so crisp, so powerful. Those memories are the strongest.

I know that I won't be around for much longer, and I'm okay with that. Every thing has it's time, and I'm approaching mine. It seems as if I dream longer and more vividly every night, running farther and farther, faster and faster, tirelessly seeking out a place to rest. So, no, I'd rather not have a flying dream.

"So can it really be anything?" The prisoner asks his executioner meekly.

"Well, there are a few exceptions, of course," The executioner chuckles to himself. "You can't do, like, an all-you-can-eat buffet or any kind of endless-BS, nor something drugged or poisoned that would alter your state of being before the execution. And no, nothing normally inedible is allowed. We don't like folks claiming they will eat an entire bed and take several days just beginning to chew the paint."

The prisoner is silent for a long time, long enough for the executioner to get slightly irritated: "Well, what will it be?"

"I... I can't think of anything..." His voice is hollow, defeated. Something that the executioner has heard for years. Music to his ears.

"In that case," The executioner says, grinning. "it's down to one question: would you like the standard meal, or do you wanna just skip right to the main event."

The prisoner grins back, a bit wider and crazed than the man usually saw. "Who said I want to be over so quickly? I need some time..." His voice grows taut. "I'll just take the standard, sir."

With that, the food is soon served: Medium-rare steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert. The prisoner savors each and every bite, wondering why his mind had been just so blank when he was talking to his killer.

Maybe it's because I've finally met my match, he thinks, looking down at the shackles on his wrists and ankles. It's been so long since I've been challenged by someone, and now, that's going to be a last of mine too.

He actually feels dread when he finishes that last bite of pie, the first human emotion he's had in a while.

"So this is it," The prisoner whispers to himself, as he is led to the execution room and his tray gets taken away. "My last meal, and now my last moments. I didn't even choose something special..."

But that made him realize: he had brought himself down to earth. Taking the same meal so many others had gotten, despite having done the most unique of crimes.

Figurative language will often fill our world with colorful ways of communicating something, but at the same time, it can be very misleading. If you don’t know it’s figurative language, and what it actually means in the context, you’re bound to be confused.

But you know what’s even worse?

When you’re meaning something literally.

“No, mom, my nose is running!!” I screamed into my phone, desperately gripping the spot where my nose used to be. It had just plopped off while I was talking to my mother, and now it’s running off on the tiniest of legs at a speed that shouldn’t be possible!! My mouth is fully conscious of the blood that’s dripping down from that spot, and the metallic taste that registers in my brain only makes this more real.... What a nightmare!!

I guess I really shouldn’t have answered the phone at the shrine.... This must be my punishment...! My nose had been runny all day because of my allergies, but this is far worse!! I’ll never complain about my allergies ever again...!!!

I’ve nearly tumbled down these numerous steps quite a few times already, and I still am not even halfway down!! Maybe I ought to just lunge for my nose and allow myself to roll down all these steps....

Distracted with my mind desperately grasping at straws in order to catch up with my nose, I wasn’t able to catch myself from tripping all.

The way.

Down.

I swear, my shrieking could be heard from hundreds of kilometers away.

But by some miracle, I was able to grab my nose despite tumbling down the countless steps like a hamster in its wheel. In all honesty, I think my nose froze in fear, but I must be going crazy.... I guess I have a story to tell my kids now though, when figurative language became all too literal!!

In my mind I’m still running away but I’m not going anywhere now. What happened? 

You know those dreams where you’re running as fast as you can but no matter what it’s not fast enough? Your body doesn’t do what your mind is telling it to do. Your feet feel encased in cement, you struggle for breath and your blood is roaring in your ears. You wish it was a dream, but it’s not. 

I wish I could wake up but you can’t wake up from real life and this isn’t a dream. That much I do know.

My feet kick and scramble for purchase. Breathing is so painfully labored, it sounds like my throat is shredded and my lungs are about to burst as they search for oxygen. My heart is pounding out of my chest, almost in an attempt to save itself and escape. I reach with my hands, clawing, pulling, desperate, but my movements are lethargic. It’s like the messages from my brain aren’t quite making it to the rest of my body. 

Wide open eyes are trying to pull in light that isn’t there. I don’t know where I am but I know I’m not alone. I try to scream for help but no sound escapes as my muscles constrict in terror. 

Life slows, my mind slows, time slows. I didn’t know the mind could slow time like this. I didn’t know how long a single breath was. I didn’t know how long a single heart beat could actually be or how to measure the space between heart beats. Everything is in fractions of seconds as my mind runs in circles, searching, in an attempt to understand.

The rustling of the leaves is so loud, as though they’re being crunched right next to my eardrum. Is it the icy bite of the wind in my eyes that caused the wetness running down my cheeks or something else? The decay of the forest finds its way to my nose along with the acrid scent of adrenaline. I try to shake my head to rid myself of it but I can’t.

With one last desperate struggle I thrash about, not wanting to add to the decay of this place. Sticks dig into my back as my foot pushes against a rock, but it slips away. My fingernails dig into something smooth, releasing the sharp scent of leather as my mind tries to grasp onto what my body can’t.

Light finally catches my eyes, it’s faint as the clouds drift away from the moon. The edges are black but there is enough light to allow me to focus. Everything falls into place as the last second, the last beat, passes. 

The last thing I see is his face above me as he uses one hand to wipe the tears running down my cheeks. He smiles then tightens his other hand as the light fades into nothing. A faint voice on the wind vibrates through the darkness, his breath on my damp cheek. 

“I love it when they run.”