The run

1- Logic:

If i can stand, i can walk,

If i can walk, then i can run.

At least that’s what they do,

2- The runners:

They pant, they sweat, they stare with open mouths, amazed at IT: This, That, Something, Anything, Whatever. I don’t know how it happens. But it’s kind of logical: they are running.

That bus stop, that woman with those bags, that street lamp, it all looks so unreachable, and then there’s the sky, that reachable two dimensional sky.

I’m sure i can run to you sky, and seize you.

3- Imagination:

And just knowing it is enough.

4- Red light:

I swear i don’t have a choice. To keep on walking, or running, or nothing at all.


They bypass me, and i do so as well. I ache; why does it all have to be this quick? i know it’s me who is running, but it’s just a matter of logic, it’s not personal. Some things just need to be done in one specific way, the plain logic one, but this just feels obscure.

Maybe it has to be quick because i live in a city that has an alternative Mcdonalds, and its called Quick. I’m not sure. That’s the thing with logic, it’s never logical.

Fifty meters, it feels like centuries have passed. The ache is gone, it lasted half a second. More than a century and half a second, happening at the same time.

i have to turn left.

6-Another parcours:

Nom masculin — (latin percursus, avec l’influence de cours). With the influence of a course. I guess this is my course, and i guess it must be influencing me. What into?

7- I-dont-know:

Just into getting out of it. Which i do. There seems to be more places to get out from than to get in. winners exist. I ask too many questions and theorize about everything too much. I need you to hold my hand and raise me. From scratch.

They bypass me, and i do so as well, but i get the feeling none of us want to; what we really want is to stay still, or sit on the floor, talk to each other, not having to go to any place and not coming from several others.

8- Companionship:

But we don’t. They walk. I run.

I run,


Let me chase you, remember the back of your head as a trophy, one from a competition against myself. You can punish me when i lose and punish me harder when i win. Bring something back. From Scratch.

I start sweating and gasping, i even look like im in awe, all like a real runner. I thought it was physicall movement that made the runners look like this, turns out it’s their fantasies.

Shame is on me, my fantasies don’t last, not enough. For example this one, it’s already dead.


I forget. But i remember i forget, in a whisper-like way, in the form of an unease feeling. A comforting discomfort that eases my body thanks to mute messages from that (this) same body in the past. like little ripples on a pond, one after the other, they bring living signals from my past. I don’t know the origin, but i’ve never been the kind that seeks after provenances. You don’t doubt me past, and i don’t doubt you either.

Ages come and ages go, it seems i’m running now, and have been doing it for a while already. Will i come and go too? maybe it’s not me running, but the earth rotating under my feet. I guess it depends on your perspective. Perspective, something impossible. And what’s possible? not much, but also everything.

-I hope you get there soon.


-Us. All.

If things begin, they must end

I wonder when they begin to end, or when they end to begin. I’m awful at telling, i always realize when it’s already done, like when someone turns the lights off, no process in it, just a swift hit of reality.



It never makes sense.

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