This is the part where I tell you what's going on in my life, isn't it? The part where I write as though no one will ever see these words except for myself and my conscience. The part where I conceal the truth with the altered reality of a romantic life view. This is the part where I lie, but I pretend to be sincere. Am I wrong?


Today I rode so many miles, I don't even know if I could fully tally them. I pedaled until my legs were tight with the effort, then I pedaled some more. I sprinted until my breath came tearing across my lungs with each inspiration, yet on I went, keeping easy pace with the speeding cars. I leapt into intersections, swerving to avoid screeching tires, weaving to dodge pedestrians. I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled until the only thing that existed was the pressure of the pedals under my feet and the cacophony of silence that filled my ears as the still air whipped against my shooting frame.


My life is a long-exposure photograph, with lights blurring all around me as the movement of daily life slides from my awareness. I pedal, the only solid object in my life being the bike beneath me.

I am constant in my inadequacies, yet the world seems to think I'll change, perhaps join the blur of the long-exposure light; but I will forever be the girl who is constant, the girl who is a blur, but a constant blur, a blur that is made up of girl and bicycle.

I don't need to run from my problems. Running isn't fast enough. Biking is much more suitable. But frankly, I'd rather square up for a round of chicken with my problems: we'll come at each other full speed, and we'll just see who gives out first. All I know is at the end of the day, I'll still be the girl on the bicycle, speeding endlessly down the bumpy torn-up road.