Pace

The previous subject of meter has drawn me into the contemplation of pace.  Where metric is measurement, pace is passing over the metric.  In writing, this is controllable through punctuation... or lengthy, drawn out, meticulous descriptions. Or concise sentences. These are, of course, the most obvious methods. More subtle patterns exist for stalling the reader in contemplation, or spurring a galloping, careening, may-day-crash of a denouement that thrills and cajoles the audience into the stomach of the tale.

Pace exists in everything. The tone, setting, rhythm, rhyme, metric - all forward the pace. And now, in this marathon, I've maintained a pace too great. I mentioned before, it is almost as if instead of simply running a race, I'm attempting to juggle flaming torches, paint the sunset, all whilst scampering barefoot along 26.2 miles. And I'm not in good shape. That analogy fails to explain that none of the parts are particularly difficult. It is more like I'm jogging ten miles while reading a book, dribbling a soccer ball, staring at the stars. On their own, each of these activities is trivial. Together, they emerge into a complicated multi-task, a juggling act. Perhaps that is the stem of my dreams.

There is a part in a difficult journey that may arise where the distance remaining is uncertain, and seems eternal.  Where mistakes are made, and each footfall wonders whether it's time for stopping, resting instead of running. It is at these moments where a simple man entertains heroism and cowardice. It is the tired pace. Halfway is almost here.