Paradox

The girl looks in the mirror, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She pulls a brush through knotted hair, pulling on sneakers halfheartedly as she bounds down the stairs.

It's early. Too early, but she forces herself to open the front door, stepping onto the front porch as cool air slaps her face.

She knows better than to focus on anything other than the next step.

Stretch.

Stand.

Go.

Reluctantly she pushes the button on her watch that starts the run.

As her legs churn beneath her she lets her mind drift, onto the laptop still sitting open on her desk, fragments of a story spilled across the pages.

Oh!

She grinds to a halt, anxiously finding the jacket she had cast aside.

There. In the pocket. She desperately clutches a familiar black notebook, scarcely bigger than her hand. Finding a fragment of a pencil she scribbles something illegible into the margins of the notebook, smiling as new details for her story come together.

With an embarrased smile she begins to run again.

All the high school movies seem to suggest you've gotta choose one.

Run or write.

black and white.

Make the right choice, get the right friends.

One misstep and you fall.

And yet, here the girl stumbles, tiptoing along an invisible line.

Lean too far one way and she'll give a part of herself up.

Keep walking and she will have nothing left to give.

Because that's what life is, isn't it?

Passion matters little when one is unable to chose a side.