I am running. Sometimes I don’t even know where I’m running to. I just know that the earth beneath my feet is pounding against my soles, reminding me that I will hit the ground if I fall. Someone once told me that they ran because it reminded them that life was about feeling and living. When I run I do it to feel breathless, to have stitches and aching muscles. I want to feel the oxygen knocked out of my lungs, the cold air to bite my throat harder than my teeth can snap back as I inhale and exhale. I run past the pain so that my legs become hollow and numb to the feel of the wind whipping through to my bones. I want to be consumed by the blood beating through my veins, the adrenalin pricking my skin. It calms me. I have purpose, direction and an attainable goal. My favourite place to run is on the road. The tarmac hitting back. I like to think about how it was poured on and rolled flat burning hot. To curl up under warm tarmac sounds beautiful. A cuddle that never lets go, as the black tar substance covers you curled foetal. But I’m yet to find a road that will wrap its twists and turns around my body, and so I carry on.