And Then I Ran

Not like I turned around and walked away, embarrassed. No, I full out sprinted. I ran like a fire was raging behind me, cars where exploding, colors faded and shifted and lost their shapes, sounds chased me that I couldn’t hear. I ran like no tomorrow, no today and no yesterday. I ran like I could take away where I was, who I was, who he was, like I could just live in this nothing of movement, my own personal track star, going-going-going.

But I am not a track star. I’m an asthmatic who doesn’t like exercise anyway. I ran past what my body could give me, until it threatened to leave me, too, along with the sounds and colors, along with all the dreams, along with him.

I stopped, just stopped, on the corner of a street I didn’t know, in a town that held it’s secrets from me, and even though I knew it would be smart to walk off, I sank to the sidewalk. I didn’t move, almost like a yoga fanatic, sitting here cross-legged on a street corner, breathing deep, watching the sky as if somehow it could possibly save me.

A light illuminated the sidewalk next to me, yellow, artificial, and a door squeaked from the house behind me. Should I turn around? I blinked, twice, but the sky gave no answer.

When she sat next to me, crossed her legs and looked up to the sky, I didn’t ask who she was, or why she was here, or what she thought she was doing. I couldn’t have answered those questions if she had asked me, and it seemed unfair to ask her.

We watched the sky together, until it changed from black to navy to purple, when the sun came up and the sidewalks became populated with people and dogs, until the real runners came. My run was over.





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