by Jobie Wayara
Time
Everyone’s trying to run up.
My peers, flights of stairs ahead of me.
My lungs, squeezed out of oxygen, leaving me dry heaving not out of nausea but of forlorn and despondency.
Hundreds of millions below me would kill for my spot on the stairs.
I am grateful for having come this far, but I can’t recover like my peers above me can.
Of time.
Sooner or later more people will pass me.
I’ll watch as their heads disappear from the limited field of view the well-hole gives.
They’ll pass me quicker than I would ever dare to try.
Out of time.
Will it be easier to motivate myself when I’m further along than I was before?
Is it disingenuous when there’s still thousands more flights of stairs to climb before everyone gets tired?
Is that why everyone tries to run?
To avoid running out of time?