The Runner
2 min read
His foot hits the tarmac with a gratifying thud, the sinews of his thigh tightly knit with the effect. The other foot precedes it and the cycle carries on. Practice and errors have taught him that he wants to pace himself, not much too slow and not way too fast either. Following all he’s just warming up. His race is with himself, and the solar. Which is lazily nestled between in the dim clouds, knowing it will have to rise quickly.
The runner owns the street, spread in advance of him like a sheet of fine oiled leather, the shine a deceptive mirage. He picks up rate, his physique catching up with his legs, palms pumping the air and his coronary heart thudding with joy. The sunshine has resolved that it simply cannot laze any for a longer time and readies itself to make its daily visual appearance. The darkish clouds start off lightening.
Beads of sweat trickle down his temple and back again. His palms and legs are clammy but the thrill functioning provides never let him discover any of it. He’s crushed the sunlight yet yet again, is his only imagined as the dark sky commences turning into gold.
The runner’s ft transfer in rhythm. He is aware of the bend in the highway forward is the marker for him to up his speed. His entire body turns a clean arc as his toes fly off the ground.
The highway is empty, trees and shrubs washed thoroughly clean by the monsoons standing sentinel to see him pass them by but once again.
What are the thoughts functioning by way of the brain of the runner. What is he functioning away from? Or what is he running toward?
