Just a light Jog

Rubber bounces off tarmac like a hand off a cheek.

A bright red cheek.

Burning.

Aching.

Puffing.

Pairing, with another, while I force out steadied pants in a focused rush onwards. The scraping pounds of worn rubber dig into the moist crevices of concrete. Trainers continue to repeatedly slam into rain-harried floor.

With each measured pace, I will my aching thighs to mimic the movement of the shoes, begging for the pain to ease, for relief to find me. My stomach tightens and relief stays hidden as my left side, pierced and thickly needled by an exerted stitch, whines at the torment. My vision is blurred, tear-ridden and spinning from the panting velocity I harry to maintain.

The electric rock of some well-loved but unknown song, thrashes somewhere in the distance. It blasts at full volume, but the tune traipses unheard over the pounding of heart and tarmac, yanking and pushing blood and shoe, in perfect union. I’m sure if it was even louder, I could sing along to that pleasant tune. I’m certain that my rubbing, bloody, blistering feet would act as astute percussion; an instrument rubbed raw is always the most reliable. I suppose that means my voice must be screamed, harsh and bloody and aching as well. Scratched and torn and perfect. That is, if I am to provide any suitable input to the musical orchestration conducted.

When something cracks, like a bullet from a gun, lightening from a cloud, or a mirror in response to a striking fist, the shattering afterwards, is the most beautiful thing you’ll ever hear. Tiny twinkles of shining stars, made of light and honesty and nothing else. They peal and clink like the softness of rain and the sharp chimes of tiny wedding bells. The triangles of truth, framed by the merging black vignette, which pillows the drifting shards. The relief after, that drifting chime, mirrors the relief of this unheard music, twisting slowly, ever so slowly down, to the red-dotted hardwood floor below.

Yes, if only I could hear, but the ground is just too loud, and the world too spun to make any real sense of beauty or self. It’s all grey anyway, grey sky, grey clouds, grey...

Thinking of mirrors for a moment longer, my eyes drift to a flash of yellow across the way. A small thing with pink ribbons for hair splashes in the loitering, dark puddles of murk. The buttercup bulge chimes a mischievous twinkle as I pace, rushing past. A deeper voice chides the light behind my back, it sounds like a grumble. My ears tinge with shame and the yellow sprite squeals no further.

I run further.

Perhaps it was a mistake. Mistakes are easily made. I’m sure the grumble didn’t mean to squash the sprite’s levity. It probably just feared the sprite running ahead. Too fast and too far. Destined to stop and soon, the only question being whether it would stop itself, or if the ground would stop it first. My twittering mind and swaying eyes look down at the gravel whisking past continuously underfoot. It made me think of floating on a bridge, overlooking the whizzing cars of a motorway below. I can’t even feel it beneath the balls of my feet any longer, nor the heels. I feel as if I am flying, as if I am free.

I’ve ran this path so many times. Every ridge, jut or obstacle is ingrained into my mind, pre-navigated and dealt with for my worn purple trainers to deter, evade and ignore with the ferocious diligence of an Olympic Champion, taking on her first day of nursery. Miles to go, but path long since learned.

If this God damned stone wants to stop me, it’ll have to grow two hands and yank my right ankle mid step to do it. Only if it’s the right, as my left being trapped would leave the stronger with more chance to break it free. Only then, will I stumble. But I’ll yank back, and I’ll yank harder. I’ll scream and bellow and kick and punch. Only then will I trip. I’ll claw at the dastardly trap till my fingers pulse circles of pain, till they’re bloodied nubs, each one blunted right down to the knuckle and streaming with the red dots of hard wood. Only if that happens, with my toes gone too, will I fall. With the fall, I’ll twist my body round till the captured appendage twists and snaps like tree bark in an empty forest. The sound will echo throughout the streets and the mountains, but I won’t hear it over the grinding of my teeth below my knee, right where I feel the blinding break. Digging into what’s left of the gushing limb, I may sacrifice breath for the scuffle against my own flesh. If that doesn’t work, if my breath, is robbed by blood and pain and rock. Then, I’ll lie there, empty and messy.

Waiting and dead, in patient submission.

...

But it will work. I will make it. The tendons and tissue will tear tersely under desperation and rubbed raw anger. I would spit out the blood and teeth at the stupid floor with every single gasping breath I need to, until the mush tore free and gave an anticlimactic thump in the rain and blood slicked street.

Then, I’d keep running. I’d use my elbows and whatever else was left. I would crawl forwards and I would not look behind.

I would continue, more scraping against the floor than pounding, but the heart beat and cascading liquid behind would more than compensate. The snail trail of rust and red behind would not deter me, there’s more blood than there is ground, it can’t stop me. I would coordinate over every bump in the road, like instinct. I would run on in this grey day until the grey clouds puffed out to twinkling pitch. I would look up at the stars and think them much kinder than a ceiling. I refuse to look down. I would sing to the sky and curse the ground and pull all that’s left of me ever onwards, never once slowing my pace.  

Until,

Until, after however long. Minutes, hours, decades, seconds? Until my eyes, blurred and crusted from an eternity held open, will a singular point of focus.

A tangent of yellow will peak its shining head over the desolate lining of a single tree.

And I’ll grin, and crawl on. Till the yellow stops hiding, and paints my face in summery buttercup light. I giggle as the warm bristles tickle my nose.

I keep crawling for a while longer, but slowly, and with a natural upturn of my cheeks not felt in eons. I blink without languidly, breathing from my nose and basking in the beams of daylight I remember cherishing so long ago.

“I never thought I’d see you again.” I’ll mutter to the mirror. And I’ll keep going, till the light leads me to that one tree. It’s not cold or dank from the torment of rain or man, it’s cosy, and the bark softer

than anything I could imagine.

The tree sits hollow, I shuffle inside and make it whole again. I settle into the new home. The light considerably dims a tad, for comfort, rotating the earth for me, so its quiet blanket of light faces me, but doesn’t make me squint. I try to say goodnight, but a yawn interrupts the sentiment. The sun chimes at me fondly, and a wooden blanket is pulled to my chin. I huff out a breath, and dwindle into a heavy slumber.

I huff again. And continue. It’s not controlled anymore, but erratic, my insides feel too hot and my outsides too cold. Everything stings, with my lungs most of all. As a stabbing droplet falls and rolls down my cheek, the clouds darken and I stop my running. Stiff and aching, I anxiously rub at my numbing fingers, trying to catch his my breath. At some point the tinny bassline of my headphones must’ve slipped down to around my neck and switched to some unbearable funko-pop. I imagine wires choking me as the annoying staccato keeps playing, outpacing my still frantic pants till it cuts them off all together. I look to the sky again, and any filling hope is jabbed and drained by the polluted night’s sky. Not a star in sight.

It’s too dark. Darker than I’d intentioned it to get. Way darker than the off-yellow swell to my eyes could ever be. Daydreaming again huh?

So dramatic.

Rolling my eyes, I readjust my music and begin the jog back home. It’ll hurt like hell and be darker than hell too, but I know I’ll manage just fine.

I’ve always been able to navigate the shadows better than the light.