It isn’t what you’re thinking —
or, maybe it is. I don’t know
what you know about it. All I know is
when I hear the words a finish line
appears, well-defined and solid,
at the distant end of a track.

At sunrise runners queue up behind the start line
and when the gun cracks they take off
as madly as they can, never noticing
that they never get any farther along —
not that it matters. The object here isn’t to win,
it’s to run; to be in the game.

If you’re watching
from the sidelines and you want in
someone just has to offer you a number,
a lane of your own that may or may not be crowded,
a stopwatch that may or may not be set to zero.
(The word is out that you should be grateful
no matter what you get.) All you need to win this one
is to be allowed on the track,

and then they call the race on account of darkness
and hand almost everyone a medal
except you — but tell you that you get to try again,
just wait for the next dawn to come up
bright and shiny as sweat on a pale brow.

“Be patient. The race is not always to the swift,”

you are told,
I am told,
we are told
again.

Fear, for me, always has far more to do with abandonment than physical danger. I’ll risk all sorts of bodily harm before taking the risk of losing a friendship, even to the point of absurdity. Even to the point of far greater emotional harm to myself.

Stupid. Self preservation is not one of my strong points. I can’t continue to let things hurt me in the name of false peace. There are times for things to end and I must get used to that sometime. Especially as my friends and I age.

I have noticed I’m getting better about it.

And…if you can read this, it’s not about you. In fact, it’s not even really about me. More about self-examination based on observations of others.