Engorged June Bugs hover inches above the grass, as if to tease things that could never fully perceive them, could never understand them. But they land and marinate in the hot summer sun, as the grass glistens and hums. The grass dances as a gentle summer breeze, a refreshing puff from the coast, meanders through the moment. Touching the grass gently. Gently as a tender kiss. A kiss from one to another, a boy to a girl, a girl to a boy, a lover to a lover, immediately succeeded by an incredible absence and an irreconcilable desire for more. The breeze passes as does every other kiss. But he could not help but hope for more. such is life. such is the human condition.
He thinks back on the race. He could not temper his pace or lose sight of the finish line, had he done so he may never have reached the finish. He may never have felt the breeze and every breeze thereafter. But in finishing the race so quickly, in running for the fastest finish, he may have missed something infinitely more meaningful than a breeze from the coast. Thousands of June bugs, thousands upon thousands of lives and experiences never touched upon, yet he remains inextricably attached and affectionate to everything missed. The race, he steadily came to realize, is never truly finished. The race had never been and will never be a race. to think so is a tremendous mistake.
