Furr.

The balls of sweat roll off my chin after snailing down these cheeks that bounce with each jounce. I have been running for what seems like a decade. A decade to me is ten minutes to the world. Time slows down for me.

I have a watch on my left wrist. It ticks seconds to you but minutes to me. Time is my own. As in, I own it. There is a ship carving wakes in an ocean of hours and days. I am the captain of that ship.

You think time is fleeting. As in, you will never have enough of it. I think time is a ferocious beast that I have conquered. I stand atop its crumpled brow with my sword wielded for I have defeated this wicked constant.

Time will no longer boss me around. I am a hopeless ninny twittering in the corner, twiddling my thumbs, wasting my minutes, MY minutes, for they are mine.

I may choose to expend my minutes upon you. I may not. That is my choice.

The watch ticks.

My feet pound the ground with a rhythm. The dust fluffs up to settle down somewhere new. This ship of mine carves time and space. My body cuts through currents, tunnels of wind and water.

I inhabit this corner for now, but for how long, is to be determined. For I am mine own. My thumbs get dizzy and I fall on the floor in a tizzy. Crazy hysterics tickle me into a giddy rage.

I am a crazed fool.

I have lost the taste for judging right from wrong.

My flesh has turned to fur and my thoughts they surely were, turned to instinct and obedience to God.

My lungs expand and contract with the pact I made, to just keep breathing. An endless maze of vessels pump cells to each, his own finish line.

For this body elapses with time. A blink. A breath. A wink. A tear.

I have been to the brink, scaled cliffs in my affections. A wolf to the pack, I have etched a fine crack in society’s finest china.

I no longer care what they think, for time is of the essence and I no longer lay my luminescence upon such petty parties. No room for cracked china in this cabinet of mine.

This quilt of lessons is expanding with each tick, a stitch. The details are in the fabric. My thoughts are made of static cling. Zing.

I could say that life is like a marathon. But I’ve run my share of marathons. I’ve not run my share of lives. Knives carve ticks into this stump of mine. Tally marks on tree trunks. Round and round we go. Rings are years gone by. Unbreakable chains of captivity. For time is but a bondage that I have broken free of. Shackles lie wrested on the ground. Cold toes on the cold floor.

Running is a mind game. A twittering ninny reeling inside a mind controlling. This foot, then that. Tit for tat. Repetitive motions bring comfort with depletion. The game becomes a war, I de-clare war. Cards flipping over to reveal the deal. You can’t read my poker face in this race of pain and devastation.

Emotions sink deep into a catacomb alone. Hooked on catatonics were the phonics they fostered through my childhood. Solitary confinement with batches of books as my consignment. I run away everyday, from the woman I’d become.

My furry skin the color of a pearl, seeks company in a forest of imagination. Svelte pelts of love and lust adorn this frame of mine. A picture of catastrophe, a beautiful disaster.

In five years time, I might not know you, and in five years time, we might not speak. It has been two weeks and still the sun shines, however meekly. The light dances upon my skin, and when the sun runs, so the rain remains, dancing all the same.

Running, running as fast as we can, they can’t catch us for we are now gingerbread men. Sweet and evasive. Abrasive with our neglect.

As you choose where the ticks on your clock fall, so I choose mine. Your ticks talk me into corners. My ticks are embedded in your skin, and so your skin turns to fur and all your thoughts, they surely were, turned to instinct and obedience to God.

And now we both are aligned, designed to walk and run.

People try to equate. And deduce. Reducing my existence to the size of a pin, stuck into a cushion that is a world evolving and revolving around a sun that emits a light I cannot fathom, a light that I can only hope to channel, remotely into the darkest of nooks. Invading. Pervading your every cell. Prison bars lie bent and broken beneath this brilliantly resilient light.

About face. Have a taste of humble pie. I’ve eaten most but left some bits for your bubbly mouth, for we all could use a bite of this pie I’ve talked about.

Ticks keep tocking, flocking to some Neverland where they will never be known again. Feet beating. Hearts jump starting, igniting with the power of the sun.

Life is but a race, keep pace. Draft off those in front. And laugh at those behind. You are where you are supposed to be, freely floating in this chasm of design.

Contemplate. Meditate. Create.

Three acts of God glistening. For this world is not ours. Nor are we our own. We belong to something bigger. I still use a jigger to sling drinks as I measure the liquor that makes me sicker with each sale made in the shade of a night club pounding. I’ll drink this glass of lemonade in the shade of this tree that is bigger than me.

For we all are running aimless-ly until we discover our purpose in Christ.

You run your race and I’ll run mine, for I know not space and time.

I only pretend.