My bear is burly and fast. I wrestle and race with him. He usually wins. But when I win, there is no glory in it because I know that he’ll get me the next time. Therefore, I can never truly win. But it never ends. There is no glory, honor, or prize, but you still have to race, yet you can’t win.


When we wrestle he has the upper hand. My arms are twigs, but his are meaty and thick with muscles. However, my advantage in wrestling is the strength of fear. I’m afraid of losing the match that is already lost, and that fear turns into strength. I’m afraid of falling too far behind, and that fear transforms into strength. I’m afraid of getting knocked down so hard, that I won’t get back up again. But even with the strength that all of these fears give me, I’m still not strong enough and I never will be. No matter how many fears arise, no matter how long I can stay on my feet, I’ll always receive the final blow and never have the last laugh.

I can’t win forever, but I can win for now. I can win one moment of “maybe it’s possible,” but it’s only a moment. That moment compared to a lifetime, is but a useless second that will soon be forgotten. Not to mention that they’re only gained when God’s will is similar to mine. Winning, in the long run, is impossible. Yet I still try and try again when I know that once I’m knocked down and my limp body is dragged out of the ring that my fans will be screaming and hating me. With losing comes a consequence that can’t be avoided. I can’t finish the match, can’t win, and can’t quit. I’m stuck there, fists beating the life out of my chest, crowds screaming, and heart empty. There is no way out, no underground railroad waiting to free me from it all.

It just never ends. The bear follows me everywhere. At home, at school, at church, and even when I crawl, exhausted from fleeing him, into the bed, he curls up in a corner of my mind and waits until I wake in the morning. I say “waits” and not rests because he doesn’t even leave me alone in my dreams. The faster I run to rid myself from him the faster I have to go. His empty stomach, his ribs protruding wickedly out of his stubby shape, his razor claws that gleam when he is ready to bring them down on you all act as whips and spurs to drive me, the racehorse, onwards. When I have to lift my head up for a breath of air I fall further behind and the spurs dig painfully into my sides, and it never ends. I just keep running, around and around the track, every step more trying than the last, the spurs digging into my sides, the whip cracking murderously at my flank, and never getting to a better place.