Writing: Run For Something

The light turns green just as my eyesight breaches the horizon of the escalator. The transition of fluorescent bulbs to the dimly lit street bursting in cascades of yellow, is not as painfully drastic as it would be had the sun been out. But it's fall now. I begin to run, regardless of my physical state, and without cognition to the condition I may be in some ten years after hanging up my Ham Sanderson signature Lacrosse stick.

My heart is racing. My legs are sore in a way that feels encumbering. I’m heaving. I’m heavy. There’s little breath flowing between my chilled teeth. The bag in my hand is weighing me left. I raise my arm in an attempt to catch the eye of the driver. I yell.

“Wait!”

The flat arch of my foot, topped with the few hundred pounds of my frame slam into the sidewalk and crackle like lightning. The cold air pluming past my face almost makes up for the extensive heat trapped under my waterproof jacket. I yell once more.

“No! DON’T!!”

But he does. Not all at once. Slowly.

I’m in my bed. Laying on my back. Obnoxiously aware of the miss-cut drop down ceiling tiles cobbled together above me. The fan in the corner whirls a volume loud enough to ease the beating in my temples. The rattle of voices from the iPad perched on the desk commits me to a single train of thought. I often over analyze the things being said. Or imagine the visual on the screen before peering over her sleeping to see that my thoughts were way off base.

I yell once more.

“God dammit!”

I feel like I’m running for the bus. Always.

I’m afraid I’ll never catch it.

Worried I’ll never be able to take a rest.

Ashamed that I desire it.

Running.

But where?

WYATT FOSSETT is an Author who resides in Vancouver, Canada. Known for high-octain cocktails of real life expression, fanciful works of fiction, and a history in Video Game Journalism.