I have been running for as long as I can remember.
From being a fickle, what could be called unfortunate, child
with nervous limbs and stubborn thighs which seemed so contrary to the rest of
the little girls – I have been running. The hot physical thud of footfall on
concrete seemed at the time, and still does now, the only kind of confirmation
needed. I run metaphorical too. My hands run across sheet after sheet of paper,
drawing, writing, making at least some kind of impression to be remembered by.
I do not know whether I want to die. When the running becomes hard and the
heart hits the back of your throat like a closed fist – it feels pretty
comfortably close, and I tell myself I like that.
There was a pain too, which I thought the compact heat and
strain of running would melt down to nothing. I am only a young woman now and
yet I still feel it beneath my ribs – a gnawing, exhausting ache as if a
balloon has been painfully, slowly inflated in a tight vein. It is the worst at
night, and thus consequently, that is when I run the most.
Even at 5 am, you may see me running. There is something mildly comforting of running through the early morning which flickers in front the face like a kind
of perforated black crepe, and I – the lone funeral marcher following the
greasy coffin of existence. Because even then – everything starts to move. I
watch foxes dart into the undergrowth as the consonant stream of cars begins to
accumulate, shuttling unfortunate individuals to some despised flavour of
monotony. The steely neutrality of routine often scares me, and when it does, I
let my footfalls fall uneven on the floor as I run – I become the disjointed
pulse on the pavement next to the efflorescent tarmac artery.
But it has no effect. Day after day – cars still shuttling
just the same. Starched-looking secretaries perched in front of steering wheels
they never seem to make much use of – just hot sharp movements, every so often.
I attempt to follow a certain car sometimes, as if warped red of its rear
lights offers some kind of solace. But it course it moves away – everything
moving.
It may be about 8am and I could still be running – the time
when sweat starts to anoint the limbs like a kind of mesh, the tongue crawling
to any moisture in the palette like a desperate mollusc. The Thump, thump, thump on the road. The
vague echo of the heart. The occasional stare of someone at the wheel – a quick
flush of blood. And when the respiratory system begins to protest, blood
thumping in the ears – endurance is often out.
At this time, it is usually the case for some car driver or
another. There is usually some sense of carcass to run past
– the flaming end of some vehicle with human bodies emerging like bloody little
fireworks. The only time the cars slow voluntary – their strange behaviour,
like observing wild animals. The maniacal stares of those still alive,
newly-driven by the vision that they can contribute some story to the office,
if they get there. No one looks at the foliage beside the road, no one observes
that there may be far greater miracles in nature than the human detritus of a
car torn in two.
It is often the case that journalists materialise, attracted
to the nearest available chaos.
‘Did you see what
happened?’
‘Gee, the whole thing’s
on its side!’
‘You fancy giving us a few words love?’
I have no words to give. I always ignore them, evade their greasy clot of taboo and tobacco
with a swing of the shoulder and onto the grass verge. If it is anything near 9
am, my pace will have increased.
I continue running, even after this. Sometimes I feel I
could reach a point no longer quite human, the springs of the body worn down to
their original metal, folding into a form of empty androgyny. I would not have
to think. I would not have to go home and take pills and food and advice and whatever other addition to life people
would recommend to me. For there is nothing really to drive me forwards or
backwards. The cars continue in their concentric circles, and I run, a thump, thump, thump on the tarmac, a sound which almost overcomes the human heart.
That is all – I am truly nothing more. It must be every day
I pass the houses of people who believe they have something. If it is the
evening – lights linger confidentially below the blinds, inviting perhaps only
the imagination in longing – for there will sit families talking excitedly over
dinner, couples cradling each other as if regressed to children, people talking
and talking into the night. My arms envelop only the endless air as I run and
run. Exhaustion is not even a sensation – it is a kind of company, a company which
prevents the smell of fear condensing over the skin. Sometimes I run as if my
life depends on it – hunted. Sometimes I run as if I have no life to give.
At 11pm you may see me running – life rolls on. Girls
spilling out of dresses sprawl over the arms of young men in the public
walkways, boisterous and filled with beer. But no one ever questions the person
running. I pass by like an object of indifference, the missile which will never
hit, the lapsed athlete. Even when tears are running, the only time the runner
is noticed is when they stop; when the body finally unfurls that white flag
seen in the stressed flesh and wild eyes of exhaustion. But that is not often.
I wonder occasionally if I will ever be the centre of the flare – if people
will stop to look at me for any other reason. Whether they will look at the
girl who attempts to shift the frozen blood through her limbs in a desperate
gesture of continued movement – pounding feet, calves, thighs, the nausea
embedded deep in the gut. Sometimes another
runner runs past fleetingly, like an endangered species – and we wonder, if we
too, will be part of that orgiastic light which suspends human attention thick
in the iris.
It is true we run much slower when we are dragging lives
behind us.
I do not know. I keep running, and even though I reach home
and the pain still continues, I will keep running.
Sometimes I turn and see myself behind, screaming. And that
is why I cannot return, for there is nothing.
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