Guilt

I feel guilty for running sometimes. Naah, I'll be honest, many a times!

I feel guilty that I have the money to pay race fees, buy gear, a GPS watch, travel to race venues, when there are some who would have rather prioritized to spend that money on purchasing food and clothes.

I feel the deviance when I consume copious amounts of food when a sedentary person would have sufficed in half of that.

I feel the guilt while driving to a trail or a park which is several miles away from my house when there are many who walk, cycle or take a bus to reach work.

I feel like stopping my run when I see a person in a wheel chair or a person with a physical deformity, who I know for certain, cannot run even if he tries. I try to slow down and avoid eye contact when I pass by them or when our paths converge. Yep, I can't handle that, since it seems so unfair.

It feels horrible to know of a friend who has broken some bone or torn a ligament and has been advised to not indulge in running, while I have the unbridled freedom to frolic around.

It feels unnatural to realise that I deliberately injure myself by running and then use precious time and resources to heal, only to repeat this cycle with no intention of stopping.

Running feels tremendously good but I have guilt when I remember that I am doing this for sheer pleasure and I have the time, in seconds, in minutes, in hours, in days, even years, to pursue something so inconsequential in the long run, when there are some who, by circumstance, would have been forced to use this time to earn their living or some so virtuous, who would have done something great for humanity.

I know that in the end I will not have created something useful or utilitarian by my meaningless jaunts. The pitter patter from my feet just feels good to me and that is all there is. That is the truth! It feels decadent. It feels so empty, yet so necessary for my well being. What would I rather do with my spare time? I try to will a good response, but I can't force a different answer.

Sometimes, I feel guilty that my parents couldn't indulge in running because they were busy in raising me. Would they have liked it as much as I do? Maybe. I believe, my mother certainly would have.

Recently I came across this poem by Jack Gilbert and it unravelled some of my thoughts, which are still not clear but are certainly less muddled.

A Brief For The Defense

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

                                                                 - Jack Gilbert

The poem seems to be a manifesto for selfishness but the other view is uneasy to digest and makes it difficult to continue with this indulgence.