Growing is rarer than not at my age. 
It is intrinsic -- unnatural, however
the adverse is almost always true. 
But THIS, this is nearly obsolete. 
A thing only I can incur. 
They don't believe it's possible, 
for if they did they'd do it too. 
Or perhaps they don't know there's something else. 
Not something else, something better.
Better is calling. 
Are you the best? 
Your best? 
I mean, if you are, why in all of God's creation did you stop here? 
Nobody deserves to settle here -- 
call it quits right here. 
I run to escape this anarchy.
Stride after stride. 
Lost thought after lost thought.
I can't recall the why after shouting the what 
all day, every day, each month, for so many years. 
I run to collect my thoughts -- design them --
then call them mine. 
For every mile is one mile closer to toward the stillness. 
I can barely remember that tranquility now, 
it's as if it were a faint dream. lost by the light. 
Still I run, chasing the light for what it has taken. 
Until it soothes me, 
thaws me, 
and I become a puddle.
Reflecting the harmony, 
which I have chased. 
I am growing.
I heard a man once say, "Overcoming is 90% mental. And the other 10%? Well, that's mental, too."
So I duel myself until I win. 
Waving my flag for all to see
that I am growing.


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