Stiff Reverie

Falling under the spell of watching parkour videos late at night brings to me the fire I feel when I need to move. Well-worked from yesterday's training, I've been set to speed slow all day, and now--as I should be sleeping--wander here to wonder: why am I becoming what I cannot help? In my little room I quadruped, find my balance upside down, push-up, roll around, imagine myself out there, running, jumping, landing, and onward. I imagine speeds and heights I don't yet have, feel all my feet--yes four--galloping on cold concrete, and wish that, like in my dreams, I could go on forever. But sitting up straight and reaching for the sky, I remember: rest comes post work. I am getting there, slowly, determined. What I did yesterday I could not do last year; what I do tomorrow will be more. I feel giddy, anxious, electric, sometimes, thinking of the paths...I just want to be a useful monkee. Want to be capable and strong and true. I want how it feels to work for that movement, sure and smooth, that first victory of a space, of my fears, and all the ones that follow. Or finding new ways within what I thought I knew. I stretch, shiver (it's cold up here, this attic space,) trying to ease my mind into slumber but am ever excited: Parkour! Who knew? I did, for so long, but didn't understand, and now I'm beginning to...And in the years to come, I will stay true to the difficulty of obtaining elite movement, control of my body within the space and time I have...I am not alone in the discipline, but am within myself. I hesitate to call myself traceuse, for feeling of not being quite enough yet, but how can I anything else be? If not traceuse, something very like, and I like it. I love it. I'm tired, I sleep so much, but it is work worth paying for, play worth gaining.  And so I feed the fire, and as it burns down into coals I sit by its warmth, cook over the heat, and then find it more fuel so it can burn on as I sleep.