The Chase

Dashing, ducking, dancing away and under the obstacles of our course, we move in. Picking up speed, we reach out for the figure ahead, seemingly so close but always fooling the eye, evading our every attempt and lash at its swaying limbs.
The limbs so gracefully swaying and pedalling it forward at a pace which we will never be able to match.

Seemingly effortless, the figure moves in and out of sight, taunting us, teasing us, heckeling us for our wish, our wish to touch it, caress it, understand it. In our blind endeavours for understanding we tumble upon each other, throwing accusations of holding one another back in every possible direction, stepping on others feet just to get something of an advantage, a head start in the middle of the race.

Running with it´s back turned, we never really get to see the figures face, only its beautifully pulsating shape, ripe with all the perfection we crave. Keeping its back on us, its identity concealed, we are reminded of all the things we, our lives and our existances lack. The independence the shape so unquestionably posesses, the resources in human nature: kindness, ruthlessness, appreciation, nonchalance but above all, the eligibility the figure through all this radiates.
The gift of being wanted, needed and envied.

Craving these things, we study the figure from afar, not knowing its identity but intent on obtaining each and every aspect of its perfection. Needing, desperately hungring for a place at its side and as so to be its equal, the equal to the figure but to nobody else.

Step after step bringing us along the same path as the figure but with a distance to it steadily growing longer we are begging our legs to propel us but faster.
And even so, as they are screaming with pain, every inch of them commanding us to halt and rest, we continue the chase.