the road to truth

-Prologue-

The most nerve-wracking part of a race would be the beginning.

It’s not the way your opponents stare at you, their eyes digging into your soul trying so hard to make the little piece of you that’s still stable, collapse. It’s not your coach’s words of wisdom or the pats on the backs that your smiling mother gives you or the pep-talks that your team mates say; it’s not any of those things.

It’s I that holds me back.

The fear of the disappointment, the discouragement, the soundless motives of my conscious just bubbles inside of me, landing at the pit of my stomach like a brick in water. I don’t fear anyone else but myself. The insecurity of someone not finding me strong, peering at me like a weakness. The sadness it brings to find that someone beat me, the last second when you know that you could’ve pushed just a little harder but you let her go. You let the person in front of you step on top of the podium, hovering over you like a ghost, waving their flag of defiance on top of your bare shoulders.

I don’t know why I become this in tuned straight out psycho when I run. Maybe it’s from the high that I get when I do my best, the satisfaction making me happy or if it’s the approval from my coach, the fact that he pushes me over the limit that I set myself, when I know that enough is enough but whenever I press stop, he’s always there, reaching out his long wrinkly fingers to turn over the switch and have me go again. Full speed.