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What does it mean to be healed? That you don’t hurt anymore? That you’ve moved on? That you feel happy all the time? That you’re in a different place? That you know yourself? That you can laugh?
People say crossing the finish line at your first marathon changes you. I wonder what that means. I wonder what I will write, how I will feel, in four days. Not worry; wonder.
I have a two-mile run tomorrow. It’s the last run of my taper: the last grain of sand, sliding through the hourglass. Plink.
Tomorrow brings a full day of work and an early bedtime. The next morning I will be on an airplane to Cincinnati. I will see my friends and family. I will take every hill and every ache and every obsessive moment of my training, and then I will run.
For some strange reason, I merely want to sleep. Curl up and make it go away. Put it off a little bit longer. I don’t know why; perhaps I am tired. Perhaps it’s another manifestation of nerves. The feeling just started today, and I’m hoping it’ll be gone when I wake up.
The house is oddly silent. My heartbeat marches in a forward line. There’s no turning back now.
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