confessional

It's been awhile since I've felt compelled to write here, or maybe moreso known what I wanted to write about. When I started this blog over a year ago, it was out of a desire to keep myself accountable as I began this seemingly impossibly running adventure; an adventure that I'd attempted to begin time and time again with no success. It started as somewhat of a running log for me, but the knowledge that it was public and could be read by anyone somehow kept me on track and accountable. And it really worked. I like to remind myself from time to time that I once struggled to run half a mile and now I feel weird if I run less than five.
I've been online journaling for years now, since before it was cool. I have a Livejournal (yes, a Livejournal) that I've written in for close to TEN YEARS. Back when I started that, it was more acceptable to write in diaryform, to be more confessional and angsty (and at 19, I'm pretty sure we were all confessional and angsty), and today that same Livejournal still serves the same function, with a dash of maturity and wisdom. But just a dash. I enjoy being able to "lock" my entries and know who is going to be able to read what I write. And knowing SOMEONE is going to read it makes me more conscious of the way I write, forcing me to weave a more compelling story with fewer details. I consider myself a private person, yet I throw handfuls of details about my life out into cyberspace for all to see. Maybe it's not so much privacy that compels me, but control - the desire to project a certain image of myself.
There's been a lot of topsy-turvyness in my life lately, most of it not so bad, but I've been leaning mainly on the Livejournal as my outlet, and let this blog slide. Back when I started the LJing, the targeted blog wasn't so popular as it is now. Now, everyone has a "running blog" or a "cooking blog" or a "photography blog", and even the personal blogs are so well-written and controlled and targeted, from what I've seen. And me? I'm all over the place. I say I want to be a writer - and am waitlisted to the best professional writing & publishing graduate program in the country right now - yet I can't seem to force myself to write a coherent and interesting bunch of sentences.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that lately I've been having trouble deciding where I want this blog to go - what do I want it to be? What does IT want to be? What do I want to say, and to whom?
In tandem with that, lately I've been a bit burnt out with the running. I've had what feels like it might be a stress fracture, and it's been bothering me for months. I never seem to get any faster, I keep stopping and walking, I sweat too much, my nose runs, and I KNOW it's not supposed to be easy but keep feeling like some day I'll just tie up my shoes and FLY. So as I dabble in other areas of fitness, I wonder if I'll eventually give up running. If the numbers I've collected on my wall will someday just be enough; if this is just one of my myriad infatuations and that I will just tire of it eventually. And that thought made me sad. It made me profoundly sad. I want this to be part of who I am. And still, like any chronic quitter, there is a part of me that is terrified that one day I will just STOP all of this, and not be able to start up again, because now I know how truly hard it really is.

The gym is closed all week. And it's birthdayweek - I'm 29 years old today - so since last Friday, everyone wants to buy me food and drinkies and cakes and candies. And if I don't exercise, I just don't have the appetite to eat all those things, and it seems like such a waste. Not to mention my mind is all over the place, I'm both jittery and exhausted, and I feel like a slug.
Last night after dinner with a good friend, I took the train home, stuffed full of delicious pumpkin pancake and sangria. I came home to the empty apartment that I share with two boys who were strangers less than a year ago, one of whom is moving across the country in a week and who I am already missing much more than I thought I would. I came home to this home, this lovely home I kind of never want to leave, and I lay down on the floor in the living room and watched the ceiling fan spin, and wanted to do nothing but lay there and stare and let my pumpkin pancake settle.
But somehow, I found myself getting up, tying up my Nikes, and heading out into the dark.

On the eve of my 29th birthday, I flew. I flew along the shore, where the water was flat as glass, the boats barely bobbing, the dark sky collecting up light from the skyscrapers and spreading it out, dimly, between the clouds. I ran by the water, on the most beautiful night this summer has seen, and I didn't stop. I wiped my face on my shirt and blew my nose on my sleeve and I didn't care, and I kept on flying. The night fishermen I passed on the causeway were silent, but they watched me, curious and benign. The city skyline lit up and I turned and breathed it in as I rounded the back of the island. And as I finished those three miles and slowed into a brisk walk, taking off my shoes and jumping the short fence to the sandy beach, I realized : This is really part of me now. This is who I am.