You’re fourteen years old and you realize the extent of the word run. You are able to see that it is not only a form of mobility, of exercise and sport.
You visualize endless forests and misty meadows, the cool grass beneath your bare feet as you run run run. You can almost smell the sharp, cold air and you can almost feel the frigid, biting wind.
You draw the connection between the two words run and free.
You’re fifteen years old and you wake up from a week-long repeating dream, one always of you running. Your heart is always beating rapidly as you enter the waking world, seeming to want to run away itself.
You love the word, but you can’t help but give a weary sigh, wondering when you’ll ever get a good night’s sleep. You stay awake, thinking over the mystical places you ran through in this night’s dream.
You want to know when you’ll get the real chance to run.
You’re sixteen years old and you watch your world crumple around you. You realize, with a shaking breath, how much running you’re going to have to do.
You chase after the wind, running from the fact that your favorite word is being morphed into something new and ugly. You hate that you’re not running for your original, beautiful reasons.
You run but you don’t feel free.
You’re seventeen years old and you have been running for centuries. You have not slept in a millennium. You are tired and aching and bitter and you cannot see the beauty of what you once saw so clearly in your word.
You hate yourself, you curse yourself, you run from yourself. Your word has taken into a solid shape of something different now. It does not mean the same free as it once did.
You dream while you’re awake and you try to run towards an escape.