I’m running, running from a place, a person, a feeling. The air is whipping against by cheeks making them flushed and red, like an embarrassed teenager. My hair is knotted by wind the as it makes flight, stray wisps flick around my face and are ingrained upon my cheeks. The wind rushes and whistles around my face and my lungs pound against my frail ribcage. It beats like a motor telling me to stop, to place my hands on knees and bring gushes of air into my lungs.


I guess I should take it back to the beginning. I always loved to run, when the other kids where grumbling and pulling up their knee high maroon socks as we stalked onto the football pitches in the winter, I would be limbering up, stretching my lean muscles ready to push myself to the limit, the final boundary of collapsing, breath all gone, feeling the grass on my face as my body doubles up on itself and finally falls. However it’s not only about the running, but what I’m running for and where I’m running from. Image

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