Monday, February 04, 2013
I hate coming back to LA.
I always start strong; start tough. Start motivated.
LA dumps buckets over my fiery. LA plays a symphony of petty disappointments over the furtive footfall rhythm of the days. LA sallows my skin and empties my eyes of sparkle.
After a couple of weeks have passed here, the air starts to settle in my chest in rimy layers. I stop wanting to get up in the morning. I stop tasting food. An insidious grayness starts to wend its way up through the fist-clenched get-up-and-go I summoned when I first passed the city limits. It squeezes liquid from my eyes; it slithers out my lips in nonsense vitriol; it infects what I see when I look in the mirror; what I see in others' eyes when I'm standing in front of them. I start to feel ugly. Stupid. Slow.
It used to take weeks for the transformation to click into place. Now, it's days.
Tomorrow, I run.