We are the murky ones.
We are the storm fronts, the border lines, the mountain tops.
The beaches, the banks, the boundaries.
The doorways, and the hesitant dawns.
We are runners. We run to feel the fringe, to face it down and run up against it with every breath.
We run for the margins, where the understood dissolves in the delicious unfamiliar and we forge ahead into frontiers of fraying ends. Out there amongst the intersections and extremities, we have come alive cozying up to wild uncertainty. Fired by the foreign, we flourish amid airports and peaks, train stations and shores, harboring a knee jerk fondness for the true abandon of transition.
We run for the obscure, purposed towards the subtleties of a million little endings and beginnings. We run for the in-between spaces, out there at the breaking apart of things -the ones we think we know, and the vulnerability of the things beyond. We run to embrace the temporal transition, from the burgeoning daylight, to the first falling leaves.
We run to be in transit. To forget where we’re going in the miracle of the momentum. To make peace without knowing the way and to allow those visceral moments of uncharted chaos to transform us in their own turning.
We run for the beautiful crazy beyond that lives right inside each of us.
A phantom, fleeting fever, we run not to feel the thrill of the finish line, but to feast on the fervor of the untraveled edges. We are runners, deep down, not for the miles or the medals, but for the fortune of the fringe.