Run

I am running away.

That’s what I’m good at, isn’t it?

What I was destined to do.

Always racing ahead,

Always sprinting away

From the starting line and the men who dare to challenge me.

I will never glance behind to see a crestfallen face

And the stupid, simple infatuation

Of the fools who love a pretty picture.

Their static adoration of the

Immobile, omniscient goddess makes me sick.

Prophets bind me with their honors.

Poets make me the object

Of every pathetic man’s desire.

Mere mortals seal my fate

With careless myths on scraps of paper.

You wanted me to run.

So run I shall, until the end of time, and the end of this race,

With the only steps I’ve ever dared to take

Beyond the age-old story.

But these first steps beyond the script are too new:

Running on my own is difficult.

I’m not strong enough to last against a single, shallow rut.

My legs collapse and I crash to the dust

In a heap of gnarled limbs and tangled hair.

A hush descends upon the crowd, and

I revel in their shocked silence.

Let them see their goddess crumble!

Let them watch perfection fade

And leave a human girl in its wake!

A girl who is crying, alone, as the runners

Pass her by so they might be wed

To a pretty picture in a golden frame.

But the goddess is forever gone –

Only I remain.

Nothing special.

Nothing important.

Just me, the mask I’ve worn for eons

Ripped free to let me blink in the dusty light of day.

I lost the race.

A goddess has been laid low by a mortal.

But how is that different from the hundred hundred

Tales that have passed before?

Will I ever run fast enough, far enough, long enough

To escape this cruel destiny Fate has forced upon me?

The winner of the race steps back

To help me off the hardened ground.

I finally lift my gaze to meet his hard, blazing eyes.

I see a fire, a passion there

That burns away all thoughts save one:

Is that truly how a man looks upon a pretty picture?