Games

So we have landed here, crouched side-by-side at the starting line, stealing hard glances at each other through our peripheral vision. We are opponents now. Our muscles will ache when we cross the finish line. Do you feel like you are faster when you see me break down? Do you win higher scores when you dance with girls in front of me? How do we decide the victor? Perhaps it is a matter of tears, and who has shed fewer. Or new lovers, and who has acquired more. I can see you flexing and preening across the track. I hear the stories you tell your friends about me. You have visions of me crumbling into dust without your crossbeams. You dream that I will erode under the gale winds and acid rain of my own psychoses. Would it be more satisfying for me to tell you that I am drowning? Would you feel more round, more tall? Would you smile more freely, imagining my grimaces? Perhaps it is time to set the record straight. When the starting shot blasts, I will not run. I have nothing to prove to you. You are not allowed to move my legs forward any longer. I will walk away from the stadium. I will breathe slowly and cleanly. The truth is that I am not trapped in a racing circle; I am free to come and go as I please. You will watch me as I turn from you. You will not understand why I am going. I will smile widely, not imagining your tears, but anticipating my own freedom. You may cry and laugh as you see fit. I will not watch you. I have other pages to write, other faces to touch, other dreams to realize. You can keep your games. I have better races to run.