Frozen

Why do I feel that this poem resonates so deeply with everything I feel?

Frozen
by Natasha Head

I have seen a life laid to waste,
in the name of pure stubbornness,
in the absolute definition of denial.

I see my own life.
Caught up on the same rails,
charging full steam ahead,
to a tunnel where no light shines.

The gates of experience fly by.
Still frames of adventures
I have excused myself from
for reasons, for selfishness.

Vanity . . . shame.
The double yellow line,
solid and illuminated,
laughs as I attempt to find the nerve.

To dare cross.

Throwing up walls of resistance
as the hourglass bleeds
grains of sand I can't afford.

I have seen a lifetime
laid to waste,
and in its shadow,
I have seen my own.

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When A Run Does Not Mean Running Away

I think I am guilty of that - sometimes, I feel I have run away from problems. Every time I am unhappy, I find myself flying to China. But then, I think that's not running away - it's running towards happiness. Today, I ran a different race. For the first time ever, I ran a full 10k marathon. It wasn't competitive - and a timing of just over an hour is ridiculous, but somehow during these days when I feel that accomplishments are a mirage, even this cast a pleasurable glow over the day.

I could have run faster and harder I knew. That is what makes me feel the same for life too. I can do better than this. Better than waiting for Fridays. And dreading Sunday evenings. Run faster and harder in life - run for happiness, because that's all there really is. There is no other run. Run to happiness.

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A Wedding.

He looked at the clock ticking away. It was already 9PM. Dinner crumbled in his hands, a mash of potato palya and white rice forming a smooth ball in his smooth-as-silk hands. He was supposed to be there, not here. The wedding was to have taken place at 10:33PM. It was an odd hour. But it was decided by them. That was the time they had first met. "Beautiful numbers," he had murmured. He didn't know why he had looked at his watch and then his neck when they met. But he had. And now the wedding.

Best friends marry. Lovers don't. He glanced down at the disgusting mess that potatoes and rice make when mixed without care. He should be there, not here. Make a heroic entry. Grab the bridegroom and run away. "You must be there," the bridegroom had pleaded. "I can't get married unless you are there." He scoffed at the idea. Then had agreed. Potatoes and rice don't match. And weddings and he don't.

He looked at the clock again. 9:06PM. He shoved the plate aside, and it made a soft sigh as it landed on the bed. He would go. He would. There would be a happy ending. They would run away somewhere. California? Where was it? He forgot where - but there were places in this world that didn't think too much of these things. He stood up. And then slowly, picked up the gilt-edged wedding card, wrote his own name over the bride, carefully, not smudging the gold lettering. Carefully, he kept it under his pillow. He knew now. Marriages take place only so that affairs can.

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