Wait until next year

I go for my first run in a month, my first run after doing a whole lot of running.

It is curious how quickly I fall into autopilot. I find myself on the same roads I usually run, even when I’ve plotted a different route. I’ve reached a level of fitness where there are at least some moments where I don’t have to urge myself to continue, instead it just happens. I enjoy this emptiness. Running works for me as an escape from the incessant, internal noise. It is an escape from myself.

Amid the emptiness I fail to notice the details as I pass, even though I know each home has a tale to tell, each road a history to hold. I look down, see three tiny fallen leaves. It is near the end of my run and the world is returning to me.

The rain starts in a half-hearted way. The late sunlight creeps in underneath the dark clouds. It is beautiful, and fleeting.

Home and the promise of fish and chips for tea.