Our Father - Movement 5

And lead us not into temptation:

BANG the gun goes. The race has begun.

Footstep, footstep, footstep

The track stretches out in front of me; no obstacles or twists…but one will occur (it always does in the end).

Footstep, footstep, footstep

FACT: A professional 100m sprinter takes 35 and ½ steps to complete a race.

Footstep, footstep, footstep

Before the race, dad took me aside. “It’s not the end result that determines who a person is; it’s how he gets there”.

Footstep, footstep, footstep

I see the podium, and in a flash I see what winning looks like. A golden woman, oozing of sensual power. Accentuated curves, hourglass figure…a goddess. She wants me…and im going to comply.

Footstep, footstep, footstep

The track guides me on one path, leads me towards my goal. There is no straying from my path, the white lines keep me focused on my goal. Starting to pant.

Footstep, footstep, footstep

“Tom!!! Tom!!! Can we have a moment of your time? Just take this microphone…speak into here, yeah. Ok rolling…So Tom, how does it feel?”

“Ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted to win…I guess I’ve done that now. It all came from belief in myself and my abilities *winks* and a good grasp of the rules”

Footstep, footstep, footstep

In the game of life, there is no winning…only prolonged ‘not-losing’. The aim of the game is to go as long as you can without losing. However, its only when you lose that you finally get to look at the rulebook…

Footstep, footstep, footstep

(The temptation? Well the temptation is to try and lose early so that you can get a glimpse at the rules…)

Footstep, footstep, footstep

Opponent is breathing hard next to me. Its just us on the track. He is my rival. He’s going to win. Then again, he has forgotten that winning races isn’t about running.

He starts to falter (thy drugs are quick) and he trips and falls. I am the only one who can win. I AM A WINNER.

Footstep, footstep, footstep

I’m an old man, watching the tape of this race. I see him fall over, and I don’t smile like I used to. I look at my legs, bandy and wrinkled with age. I thought I was a winner…I guess I was wrong.

Footstep, footstep, footstep

I see the podium again, I see winning personified again. It’s the sensual woman, moaning in the pleasure of the win. She’s at the finish line, screaming out my name. She opens her legs and cries for me to cross the line.

And I’m going to comply.

Footstep, footstep, footst-