Allister had always been suspicious of anyone who felt the constant need to run from place to place. Now, the trend of jogging as exercise was far from uncommon in his day and Allister, himself, enjoyed staying fit. But, he could not understand what pushed people to rush. There were few events Allister surmised that required a rushed pace. Those included fires, shipwrecks (although eventually swimming would be more functional), tornadoes, gunfights, marathons, and emergency trips to your physician.
Beyond those, he found it only amusing and, at times, annoying that people would sprint from place to place with nary a purpose. Everyone would claim they needed to "get somewhere." But, their legs seemed unattached to the rest of their body. And it was apparent to Allister that their torsos felt like they were, in that moment, simply sitting calmly on the pelvis. Meanwhile, a look below the waist revealed that the legs were pumping in a furious, surreal manner- as if they had places to be that the body did not.
Allister surmised that, in most cases of human travel, the torso and legs were indeed headed towards the same goal. So, why the rush? Why the stress? Those questions were not so easy to answer. Somewhere along the way, people decided to add the idea of the race to every facet of human life. Perhaps, it was the advancements in scheduling which added more appointments without adding more hours in the day. Or, perhaps it was the addition of sidewalks and roads, always paved towards an eventual end (finish line). And, perhaps, the idea to rush was not everyone's idea. But, instead, the idea of a few that swept up everyone else along the way. And, now, they all needed to "get somewhere."
Those, of course, were all simple theories, the proving of which seemed impossible and pointless. But, Allister logged them first in ink on the palm of his hand (as Allister did not believe in carrying scratch paper with him) and, then, later in a simple notebook buried deep beneath a pile of Jules Verne novels.
Nevertheless, Allister refused to move beyond the speed of the stroll. That decision led to pushes and shoves from others who were "getting somewhere". Allister took those in stride, tried hard not to shove and push back. And, often times, he succeeded. But, from time to time, his eyes would betray him and send a shove out with a silent and shockingly violent stare. It saddened Allister. He longed for the days when torsos and legs were in harmony and wished with all his might that the future would bring that gift. He feared, though, that it would not. That, in our need to "get somewhere," we would all be sprinting too fast to see the need to slow down, to see that we had been somewhere all along (and it was a somewhere free of quotation marks).
Beyond those, he found it only amusing and, at times, annoying that people would sprint from place to place with nary a purpose. Everyone would claim they needed to "get somewhere." But, their legs seemed unattached to the rest of their body. And it was apparent to Allister that their torsos felt like they were, in that moment, simply sitting calmly on the pelvis. Meanwhile, a look below the waist revealed that the legs were pumping in a furious, surreal manner- as if they had places to be that the body did not.
Allister surmised that, in most cases of human travel, the torso and legs were indeed headed towards the same goal. So, why the rush? Why the stress? Those questions were not so easy to answer. Somewhere along the way, people decided to add the idea of the race to every facet of human life. Perhaps, it was the advancements in scheduling which added more appointments without adding more hours in the day. Or, perhaps it was the addition of sidewalks and roads, always paved towards an eventual end (finish line). And, perhaps, the idea to rush was not everyone's idea. But, instead, the idea of a few that swept up everyone else along the way. And, now, they all needed to "get somewhere."
Those, of course, were all simple theories, the proving of which seemed impossible and pointless. But, Allister logged them first in ink on the palm of his hand (as Allister did not believe in carrying scratch paper with him) and, then, later in a simple notebook buried deep beneath a pile of Jules Verne novels.
Nevertheless, Allister refused to move beyond the speed of the stroll. That decision led to pushes and shoves from others who were "getting somewhere". Allister took those in stride, tried hard not to shove and push back. And, often times, he succeeded. But, from time to time, his eyes would betray him and send a shove out with a silent and shockingly violent stare. It saddened Allister. He longed for the days when torsos and legs were in harmony and wished with all his might that the future would bring that gift. He feared, though, that it would not. That, in our need to "get somewhere," we would all be sprinting too fast to see the need to slow down, to see that we had been somewhere all along (and it was a somewhere free of quotation marks).
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