varying degrees of light

Someone I know once said, to the general audience of whoever would listen (perhaps including herself), that acting is her escape. This stuck with me, as only some things do, for a year or so now. I went running tonight, around one in the morning, as a late celebration for Independence Day. Legs extended and arms swiftly pumping in fluid motion and it was so... something I realized would be always more of a raw experience than any song or film or chapter, because I was aware of my heart pumping, my toes springing off the road with each step, the smell of oak trees and lilacs wafting in and out of the path, my shadow sinking and rising with the streetlights and jumping harder, kicking higher to the corner and, with one swift stomp, turning down the other street. It always sat odd with me, what she said, to escape from worries and obstacles by putting on another person and living their life. Especially in the context of theater. Who has more conflict than a character on stage? Running through the town of Sioux Center at night, in the cool, summer stage, I listened to a few songs, songs whose lyrics I would love to plaster onto here but I won't because it would be both excessive in space and incomplete in essence. Yes, the essence. But, to list a couple,
Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem
House by the Sea - Iron & Wine
Each song's dedicated to a specific person and, usually, a specific time and place and it was a terrific and eventful run. The hype and high bled into the shower and teeth brushing after, bouncing from one leg to the other and keeping me awake even further into the night.
There is no escape, and I mean this in the least dooming way possible. I'm not talking about hope - there is always hope (and I mean that in the least cheesy way possible). What I'm saying is that after my run with God and her efficiency, design, nature, providence, children, I sat on my porch and... almost in a way that completely offset the run... unhinged my ears and mind to take in worry and conflict and all those things. There is no escape. I was mistaken and naive to think that things would be different after the run. But there was more than one story told tonight, staring at the sky and occasionally mistaking fireflies for shooting stars. Story after story after story and the leg slams the foot down, the foot propels the body forward, the arm swings back while the other comes forward and the other leg bends at the knee to start it all over again. There's a lot to be afraid of, but there are also, for the lucky and blessed ones, more than enough people to think about during late night runs, beautiful people to laugh and breathe and share the stars with afterward.

I was a quick, wet boy diving too deep for coins
All of your street light eyes wide on my plastic toys
Then, when the cops closed the fair,
I cut my long, baby hair,
Stole me a dog-eared map and
Called for you everywhere...

Have I found you, flightless bird?

-Flightless Bird, American Mouth by Iron & Wine off of The Shepherd's Dog.
I couldn't help myself.