My run becomes anthropological

  • Monday, November 18, 2013
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I run at twilight. The woods have pockets of cold black in the deepest recesses and there is a fine drizzly mist. I am not on drugs and I've only had one beer but my imagination runs amok. In the half light I see formless and ancient warriors with dull swords, woad daubed faces and twisted hair. Unless of course they are dog walkers with walking sticks. Walking. My run becomes anthropological, twisted roots and fallen trees become the corrupting bones of fallen gods, the black earth reeking of divine blood and fertile death.
This is winter running distilled, alone with my demons and pursued by the dark. It is cold and the mud relentless. And yet this is only the beginning, there are many miles to run, it will get colder and the vapours thicker. The loneliness, the darkness and the half mad thinking will intensify and because of it I will get stronger.
When I get home my Five Fingers go straight into the washing machine and I the shower.

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