Very much just another blog

The run

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I sit on the steps to my home, halfway between my day and my night. I am smoking a cigarette that I don’t really want, but which gives shape to my sitting and so I continue. When I have finished smoking I leave my bag wedged behind the pillar of the doorway and walk away from the house, up the road and towards Greenwich.

It’s dark as I begin walking. And freezing. The sort of cold that burns white and deep into your bones. I push my face down into my collar and walk faster. I am not meeting anyone; I have no reason to walk; nor, I think, do I have a reason to stay still. Movement seems more useful and I break into a soft run.

The run feels good. It hurts in a way; my smoke-decorated lungs are tight and small, but just feeling them seems important and, as I run faster, I begin to feel that I could carry on. I could run for a really long time, really hard until; until. Until such time as I have to stop.

I run through Deptford, ’round the short cuts I know, I run along the empty street towards the glow of the shops and the restaurants and the smell of booze, I run passed people smoking outside bars. I run up ’round the edge of the closed park and its high walls and towards the heath. In the middle, with my chest tight and each breath like a clawed swipe inside me, I stop. My skin is clammy and hot. I lay down on the wet grass, facing up, arms outstretched, legs parted. I start to laugh.


Written by elikafm

March 12, 2010 at 11:57 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

One Response

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  1. poetic


    March 13, 2010 at 12:01 am

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