Running Away From Finish Lines
Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe
I was never built for endings.
Completion feels too much like containment—
like putting a lid on a storm
and calling it calm.
They taught me to race,
to cross lines,
to collect victories like proof of worth.
But every time I arrived,
something inside me went quiet—
that small, essential hum
that only lives in the in-between.
So I stopped running toward things,
and started running with them—
alongside the wind,
the ache,
the endless ache of wanting more.
I am not chasing triumph anymore.
I am chasing continuance.
I am chasing the stretch of time
between what I know
and what I don’t.
Perfection has nothing to teach me.
Arrival has nothing to offer.
I am most alive
in the almost,
the unfinished,
the hands-still-dirty parts of creation.
Some people crave closure.
I crave expansion.
I crave the steady burn
of a life still in progress.
Let them build monuments to completion.
I’ll build fires instead—
bright, impermanent,
meant only to illuminate the next step.
There is no finish line for the ocean,
no final note for the wind.
Why should there be one for me?
I am not here to end.
I am here to continue.
To keep running
until the horizon bends,
until the world calls me home,
and even then,
I’ll find another sky
and start again.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
