The Runaway

She couldn’t hear the roaring of the cars as they rushed by her. She couldn’t hear her own footsteps, as they fell freely against the concrete. She couldn’t even hear the very vibrations of life that surrounded her as she picked her path through the busy down town streets. The only thing that she could hear was the melody, the lyrics and the rhythm of the song that forced through her mind and pulsed throughout her body. The lyrics rang through her, over powering her own individual thoughts. “ ...This isn’t just good bye, this is I can’t stand you...” , but she didn’t mind. As far as she was concerned, the less time she had to think, the better. In fact, the sad reality of her life, was that all she had was time to think, and it pinned her down with anxiety, fear and confusion. The only time she ever felt free, was when she was here. Right here. It wasn’t so much a physical place but rather a place in her mind’s eye. Each step quicker, than the one before. Each breath a little harsher, than the one before. Running. Some people preferred to ‘jog’, and good for them. She had always envied them in a way. To jog, always seemed a little more enjoyable, as though it were a passive form of running. Steady, calm, even and reliable. But what she admired most about ‘joggers’ was the distance, how far they could go, how long they could ‘jog’ for. She was always just a little jealous that ‘they’ could spend that much longer in a state of true and utter bliss.
But she,... she was a runner...pure and simple. Each stride harsh and each movement forceful. There was no calm to her movements but rather nothing but pure Adrenalin, pure emotion. The song pulsing through her and her body feeding off of the very essence of each word. “ She’s a pretty girl, but she’s always falling down...” Her thoughts were a burden that she had learned to live with but, for 20 minutes each night(sometimes 40 if she managed to get a run in both the morning and night) she was free from that burden, free from everything. Sometimes, the songs she listened to, blocked and replaced her own thoughts allowing her to create the illusion that she was care-free, if only for awhile. Other times, the lyrics seemed to mirror her thoughts, as though they were written about her, about her life. And really, that wasn’t even all too bad. But it was the nights when she listened to the sad punk indie songs she knew so well, that she favoured the most, and those nights were rare and saved for the days when tears haunted her every breath. Those were the nights where she could barely stand still, her whole body literally vibrating in anticipation, in pure emotion. 1-2-3 and then she was gone. Taking off, faster than her mind .,.running away from everything. Those were the nights when she ran the hardest, the fastest. Each stride taking her closer and closer to some untold destination. Her pulse would race, and she would struggle for breath but every stride was just a little quicker than the one before. Faster and faster, sweat tracing down her back. She imagined herself a blur to anyone around her. Her steps light and feeling as though she was floating rather than running. Faster and faster until it hurt to breathe. The song pulsing, her heart racing and for once just once, her mind was free. She was free. And then it was over. She would round the familiar corner and see her familiar car at the end the familiar drive way and her all to familiar reality would start to break through. She would slow to a jog and then hobble to a walk, as the joints of old injuries would suddenly become alive with pain. She would let out one last harsh breath as her eyes drifted skywards in a subconscious hope to see the stars. If only it could have lasted just a little longer, if only she could have run just a little faster, just a little further. Maybe just maybe, against all hope she could have out run her own life. Maybe. But now she was home, and she headed up the stoned drive way, the harshness of reality fully taking over. She would pause just before opening the door to look over her shoulder one last time.... “there’s always tomorrow...” the now distant song whispered in her ear. “ there’s always tomorrow...maybe tomorrow...”

Love: A True Story

She sat there. Quiet. Silent. Her eyes drifted closed but she could still see slightly through the soft filter of her eye lashes. Instinctively, she knew she should cry and the well trained actress in her was all but ready to comply. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. It was her lack of emotion that caught her off guard enough to distract her from him...from who he truly was. She found her mind drifting away from the matter at hand and illogical toward why she still had dry eye lashes. With out tears, the whole atmosphere just didn’t feel right... there was no dramatic action... tears were so necessary. So she improvised. There was only one thing more dramatic than tears and that was silence. Silence left so much to be desired of a situation. Answers, Questions ... words in general. But its perfection laid in its simplicity. It used a man’s guilt against him...even if there wasn’t any there to start off with.