It used to be that I graced the open ground with a lithe speed. These days, after 5 minutes of jogging, even my breath fights for breath. The world bounces up and down with my head, squiggling the streetlamps into little signatures of light, signing off some unseen statement that condemns me to a life of running after things I can never catch.
It’s good to be alone, but it’s dangerous. In this situation, my mind begins to think for itself. I think of you, of course. How I had to close the door for you after you left this morning. How you couldn’t turn around on my front steps. How it would have hurt you too much.
I run past the houses along my stretched street, pain pummelling my ribs with broken glass stabs. I think it strange that I used to enjoy this. I get to the end of the street, where I usually turn around, at that house with the right amount of renovation and perfect modern lines. I stare for some time at the number on the gate. I made that number. But I can’t remember how.
It’s strange to come home and meet someone at your front door: you feel like you should go in and come out again, make it proper. I’m walking gingerly around the corner, holding my sides, and there’s a policeman’s blue body standing on my porch. He asks me if I am me and I tell him I am.
Had a bit of trouble finding the place, he says. No number on the house.
The policeman exhales deeply and looks into the purple evening sky. And I can tell—even before he starts to talk—that something is very wrong with the world.