I haven’t written about it. I didn’t think I would. But I think I should. The tragedy at the Boston Marathon has hit me worse than I’d thought.
(“Why do you look so sad?” the wife asked. “I don’t know,” I replied.)
I’m an avid runner, and one who has dreamt of qualifying for Boston for the past 10 years. Never managed it, but it didn’t matter. The anticipation probably gave me more joy than its actualisation will.
It was routine when I ran to have images of myself running down the streets of Boston push me on during my runs. Cheered on by friends and family and in peak condition.
Two breaths in. Four breaths out. Boston.
(“Maybe it’s work,” I said.)
But it’s hard to do that now. After what happened.
What a horrible, horrible juxtaposition. That of a planned and dedicated personal triumph, set against that of the randomness of terror and vulnerability.
Just thinking of it hurts. Makes me sick.
(It wasn’t work I thought.)
On my run last night I couldn’t help but think, “what’s it all for, what’s this all for?”
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