I wish to be untethered.
I don't want keys or a debit card. I don't want to have four coins perpetually jangling in my pocket for bus fare. In fact, I don't want to read another bus schedule again. I don't even care about a belt, about earrings, shoelaces. I don't want a bag or a purse (gag) and I don't need a hollographic trillium to prove I'm old enough to drink. But forget beer.
I want to leave my house with a shirt, shorts and some of the simplest shoes you'll ever see. (Maybe I don't need those.) I would explode down the dirt rode, madly flicking gravel up behind me with each snap-twist of the pads of my feet. Untethered I run because I can. It's not a dream, I can run as fast as I need to. I can also hit as hard as I need to. Pow! Knuckles hit brick or bark. I could scream as loud as I need to. I want to express joy or show the solitude of these open planes. I want to scream as loud as I can. I can feel that running. I can feel the spikes that have grown underfoot, giving me the grabbing and propelling power of baseball cleats that I need to run without reservation. Catch-explode, catch-explode; gone, gone gone am I.
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