It is the narcotic joy of running half naked through the green and rural scrub

  Let me bring you love from the field:
poppies red and roses filled with summer rain.
To heal the wound and still the pain
that threatens again and again
as you drag down every lover's lane.

(Songs from the wood, Jethro Tull)

I love the smell of the woods in summer. The heavy odour of swampy musk caused by high temperatures hitting the damp earth produces a humid fragrance that stimulates ancient human senses into life. This organic perfume is caused by the fusion of both rotting and blooming foliage, tangled and inseparable. I believe the smell is drawn up from the soil where it mingles with and is disseminated by the wind. It is a smell that becomes a narrative that speaks of the great cycle of life and death, the trees and plants, the myriad insects, the badger, the fox, the squirrel and the bird. The air gets dense and as thick as a wet blanket causing you to take great dragging gulps, drawing it deep into your lungs where it passes into the thrum of blood that roars in your ears like a freight train. This must be a little of what it feels like to be dying, every breath a fight and a sweet reward full of hope and priceless value.

This was my run out on Tuesday, I went running to clear my thoughts but instead ended up with this juxtaposition of ideas, I had been at the Natural History Museum in central London, full of its petrified and preserved flora and fauna, and I've recently been revisiting the agricultural sound and themes of Jethro Tull's music with all it's atmospheric English countryside overtones.
It is the narcotic joy of running half naked through the green and rural scrub that gives rise to these delirium filled fragments of web space. I keep telling myself to stop writing like this and make my run reports more functional but I can't help myself, I've always over thought and I like ideas, it's just who I am.