Run..!

Under the intense heat of the late afternoon sun
and the cooling breeze that offers little respite, I run.
Across the main road through town, past the hulking figure
of the Dom Kultury.
Stopping for a moment on the one road-going bridge
over the river to catch my breath, wipe sweat from my brow
and gaze at a partridge scouring the well-tended field
on the riverbank. It lets out a cry, which rouses me.

I continue running, pounding the concrete until it’s time
to turn off the beaten track, leaving the town behind
for the country roads, for the freedom they afford.
My muscles ache as they shake of the lethargy
of a winter hiatus, but my mind aches more as it tries
to shake off the lethargy of a lifetime of mistakes,
of stupid decisions, of loss of control. I want to stop,
I want to give it all up and fade to black,
but something keeps me running.
Something keeps me pushing myself to survive this storm
that’s raging inside my mind.
This storm that’s dark, deep and despairing.
This storm that doesn’t seem to have an end, a happy ending.

I run past newly-built houses with their pastel-bright facades,
past lovingly-sculptured allotments and weather-beaten barns,
past reverent shrines to the Blessed Mary and the wooden bungalows
that define this ancient bastion of Slavic Europe.
Many times I stop and gasp for breath, bereft of hydration
and hope, weak and wasteful of all the chances I’ve had in my thirty years.

How many more do I have, before they finally run out?
How much father can I run before I collapse upon the tarmac,
expending that last breath in a twitching mess?

I think about all that I have been, all that I want to be
and all that I am – I am a cockroach, whether I want to be or not,
for I survive regardless of the pain, the sorrow, the loneliness.
I don’t want to be. I want to live, I want to grow strong
and tall like the ivy that adorns the walls of farmhouses,

like the sunflowers that reach ever upwards in great optimism.

I want to mean something to somebody,

not tear them apart as I always seem to do.
I want to heal, not destroy.

I keep on, stopping at the wooden bridge back across the river,
thinking about how easy it would be for Thor’s rage
to strike me down as I hang onto the coiled-steel cables
that suspend it above the muddy waters.
Why doesn’t he? It would be so easy in that moment
to give myself up to a cold-hearted, humiliating death.
So easy to give up. Above me, the skies darken as rainclouds roll in,
and I cross the bridge that leads back to civilisation.
Do I belong in such a world? Am I really destined
to plant roots there, as I have longed for since I can remember?
Have I lost the one I have dreamt of,
needed to guide me back into the light after being consumed
by a terrifying darkness?
I don’t want that to be the case, despite my naivety,
despite my faults.

I tread an asphalt road now, past a factory bleak
and grey like the prison my mind finds itself in.
The fields fall behind me, new life replaced by old life,
new hope replaced by the old fears that have weighed
me down since the day I became aware. Is it a sign,
that I cannot truly run from my fears?
That I am destined to face them and fight them
and either die trying or conquer them?

I desperately hope that is it the latter.
I also desperately hope that my legs hold up,
for they are screaming at me in rusty pain
as I cross the train tracks that border the town,
and run to the end of the leafy street there.
Something catches my eye, and I accept the opportunity
to catch my breath once more.
Up high, I see a stork’s nest atop a telegraph pole,
where a mother tends to her cawing offspring.
They stare at me for a moment, just long enough
for them to distract me from the pain in my legs,
the sorrow in my heart, the dull ache of failure
and self-doubt in my mind.

And then reality returns, and I know I must finish my route.
I run past elderly folk sitting on terraces enjoying the re-emergence
of the day’s dying sun, a golden glow cast upon their time-worn,
smiling faces, and snatch at a few ripened cherries
as I pass under the branches of tree hanging over the pavement,

desperate to alleviate the dryness in my parched mouth.
I slow almost to a walk as I climb the hill by the ancient stone church,
my broken knees buckling under the stress of all-too-familiar wear
and tear, struggling to the top before picking up the pace again
to cross the open space of the market square, dotted
with families enjoying ice-cream and gossip.
The cobbles uneven as I stop at the water-pump, drinking lustily.

It never rains but it pours, they say, and that’s what I feel
as I allow the water to cascade over my head, feeling for a fraction
of a moment that I am drowning in a sea of inadequacy.
I am nothing, I will always be nothing.
I will always be a fuck-up. Now I am in pain, serious pain,
as I run the last kilometre down the hill to the place I call home
these days.

Home.. what is that? Is home a place, or a feeling?
A feeling of being wanted, of being loved,
of not fearing the future as you’re curled up on the sofa
in front of a raging, reassuring fire with
that one person you call ‘special’?
If that is the case, then I have no home, because once again
I have broken that home with my folly.
That last kilometre is always the hardest, the one with the most pain,
the biggest weight on these shoulders Atlas would look upon
with envy. That last kilometre, the last rites on a lifetime
of disappointing those around me.

And then there’s the collapse on the steps of this home,
the shortness of breath, the hope that soon my mind
will be clear of the demons that have lived there for so long,
the fear that perhaps they will never be exorcised.
The fear that no amount of these runs can save me.

And yet still I run, because that’s what I do.
I swim against the tide, I fight the future, I try to learn from the past.
Each step I take is a new memory, a new weapon against
my own failures. And so I live in hope, that I can fix the mistakes
I have made, be trusted once again, that I can run without the pain
that I feel right now.