The Race

Each night they line up to begin this tricky race.

It seems their number multiplies each day.

Waving and jumping, kicking and stretching

They prepare for the labor ahead of them.

Do you hear the cynical laughter?

Do you hear the jokes of the cocky, those who believe they’ve won already?

At 10pm they begin, running faster and faster with each passing moment.

Resilience and dedication set their courses in stone.

They, my friend, are the thoughts of the anxious.

They have no loyalty to she or he who created them.

Their sole purpose is this race, this constant never ending process of repetition.

Each night they do their best to run until you are weary.

The reminders that you didn’t complete tasks from the day, the blaring alarms pointing out the difficulties of tomorrow

The replaying of scenes from moments behind you, the assumptions that you can create an accurate depiction of moments before you,

They run.

And run.

And run.

And the race is never won.

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