What are we?

We are what we are...vessels for the soul.

Why are we here?

Here?...You mean living? Well, this thing called life is a dream of the soul.

I don’t understand.

That’s OK, no one does.

What about you?

What about me?

How did you come to understand it all?

Maybe you just think...or dream that I do.

So what is the purpose of all this?

Well, this dream is about the sanctification of the soul.

How does the soul get sanctified?

It’s different for each of us.

How do you know that?

Maybe I don’t.

What do you really know?

I know with certainty that your best day on earth is but a bad dream for the soul.

***    *********      ***

Racing is good practice for dying. You’re there, on the starting line, all alone and facing so many unknowns. How will your body hold up? How will you handle the pressure if it’s close down the stretch? Can you suck up enough pain to get through all this?

I loved track as much as I hated it – almost as much as I miss it now. I loved the practices and the metronome cadence of pounding feet to the changing seasons. I hated the races, my body always hinting at treacherous betrayal.

Our track was situated on a bluff in the southern part of Staten Island. There were railroad tracks at the far end. When the wind picked up, it blew across the train tracks and against the far turn of our track. We called that far turn “the wall” when the wind kicked up, because it felt like you were running into a brick wall.

I hit that wall more than a few times. I died against that wall a few times too. Track is full of death metaphors; “Rigor mortis set in,” referring to the stiffness that results when too much lactic acid builds up in the muscles; “He died on that last straightaway,” describing a late race fade, or “I rigged,” for tightened up or choked.

Yeah, track is great practice for dying.

***  *********      ***

Those lights across the lake have been the same for all the time I’ve been here. For more than seven years they’ve burned all night, casting their long, thin, amber reflections from the other side of the lake. Summer, fall, winter and spring...all the nights I’ve been here, just as surely as all those nights I haven’t.

I love running along empty roads at night, almost as much as the sweet smell of morning air. I love it all.

In fact, I love this place, even in winter when the lake looks like a snow covered field and especially in late summer when a sinking red Sun’s rays turn the water a deep crimson. During those late summer sunsets, it looks like a lake of fire.

I know that this is just the self – this dreaming mind within this shoddy vessel, but I’d swear that this single act of appreciation seems to give, even this dreaming mind and this poor vessel, some value. As though it makes the soul smile.

***   *********      ***

I toe the starting line hard and kick some ashen dirt into the air. The wind blows sand into my eyes. My dreaming mind sees this as a catastrophic distraction from focusing on the race. My dreaming mind knows this race will hurt and my body responds by hurting already.

“Just a half mile,” I try and con myself. “Anyone can get through a half.”

When the gun goes off I just go and suddenly I don’t feel as bad as I just thought or dreamt I did. So I run. All poor boys run. It gets you used to the dog-eat-dog that comes after school. Gets you used to taking orders and doing what has to be done. Soon enough that wild stallion of youth simply saddles itself.

That’s what racing’s really all about.

***   *********     ***

Part of me knows I’m already dead, but this body and this dreaming mind just won’t accept it. The body’s afraid of dying because of its aversion to pain. Neither this body nor this dreaming mind can comprehend the completeness of death.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always talked to myself. Sometimes I get interesting answers, though mostly not. Still, it helps me accept this dream for what it is...an exit.

Sometimes I dream that I’m awake, but that’s when I’m most sure I’m dreaming, cause I know this dreaming mind can’t really understand the concept of being awake.

***    *********       ***

I watch the rise and fall of the right foot of the runner in front of me. It makes the pace seem slower. Fool the eyes and you fool the mind – my soul just seems to know that. I think all souls do.

The first lap is the “break in” lap. You sweat yourself loose and adjust to the pace. The second lap starts with a jockeying for position. Half way through this lap and we’ve put 660 yards behind us. Just two-twenty more to go.

I’m in third, five yards back and off the right shoulder of the leaders. The wind kicks up and I feel it all at once – my throat closes, my chest tightens and my legs feel heavy as tree stumps.

THIS is PAIN!

All of my will drains in the face of relentless agony.

“Who cares who wins this bullshit race?”

“Why am I running so hard? What does it all matter?”

“What’s the use of all this? What good does it do anyway?”

I feel the fear rising up in me and I know that somewhere I’ve got to find the one emotion that can get me through this – Anger...RAGE!

I rage against myself and my terrible awkwardness – I want to run so hard my lungs explode. I dare myself...and lose.

Third...again.

***   *********      ***

When it’s done I’m drained and drenched in sweat. I try convincing myself that if I can deal with that pain, I can deal with dying, but my body doesn’t believe me, nor does my mind, I can tell.

I hear myself talking to me again.

“That’s not real pain. You could walk away from that any time you wanted. You’ve never known pain you couldn’t turn your back on and that’s what dying is...the pain you can’t walk away from.”

I stop this inner dialogue because I have no retort. I don’t have the energy to deal with this. I want to be alone, but I know that I can’t.

I’ve never been alone.

I’ve never been alone because I’ve never been able to get away from myself.