I went for a run. I’ve been running consistently for over a year and a half now. It’s a panacea for me. I run outside. I like to feel the cool wind on my skin, my pores open and sweating, the legs rhythmically turning over in pursuit of flow. In the beginning, I kept my head down, finding it difficult to smile or look at others. I usually like to connect to people somehow, to remind us of our humanity. Eventually, as the pace got me past the first mile, I started to look up and around. I saw and heard people. A laugh. A morning greeting between co-workers. A one-sided phone exchange. The juxtaposition of the feelings of my country divided and decided, against the backdrop of life as usual was jarring. I wanted to run down the feelings, in search of something: resolution, calm, peace, catharsis, or something else altogether to jettison the overwhelm. My body needs nurturing. It wants to build. It craves maintenance. If you have ever made anything then you know this truth: creation can take hours, months, years. And yet destruction can happen in an instant. Yet we still forge. We have to conceive, design, and construct to satisfy this innate desire. With matters of the physical, the mind, and the heart, upkeep is paramount. Without it, disrepair creeps up quickly. To achieve or progress further, requires even more effort. Sometimes that feels outsized in comparison to how easy it is to slip into decay. My feet took me to over 3 miles around a corner and a mild uphill. The legs started to give, and the crushing feeling in my chest forced me to a stop. I wasn’t having a heart attack. My ire had manifested itself physically, and halted me. I had to let it consume me briefly. I had to have a small breakdown. This was grief tied up in a turd of disappointment. My legs started to walk. Slowly at first, and as I crested the small incline, they got back to it. The feeling of disbelief is a privilege. I’m not surprised. Disappointed and angry, yes. But not surprised. I’ve...