I came back from running, my endorphins soaking in my head and the passage from The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest comes back to me. The endorphins gave that police officer such a sense of pleasure that she was addicted to exercise. I’m not addicted to exercise, but I still like that feeling.
The summer, with its humid air permeating every pore, lets me calm down, especially after running. The loud hum of the dehumidifier is in my ear, but I don’t mind it. It’s become background noise, like the way my tiredness has become, when I run. I sit in my plastic chair that’s probably from Ikea, and I realize that I want to thank people. I want to thank my parents for putting up with my very non-angsty self. I want to thank my friends, especially [name redacted, you know who you are]. You didn’t freak out when you read this blog. I spam your email like a professional spammer, but you read my emails anyways. Thank you. I want to thank my eighth grade social studies teacher for believing in me and opening my world. It’s because of you that I was able to start thinking about the world around me. Thank you to my Twitter friends for being the best of online friends.
The spring, with its cool air, not too cold nor too hot, is perfect for running. I don’t sweat that much, the gross feeling of sticky water that is on the surface on my forehead, the dip in my back, and probably on my head. Sometimes I run in the spring, warm, but the gentle coolness whips around me, and I realize how terribly alone I am. The coolness is comforting but at the same time, it can be a constant reminder of things I have not achieved.
Winter. I like the snow, the lumps of tiny crystals that form something bigger. The tiny, tiny things, that together, form something bigger. I layer clothes on, a shirt, a hoodie and a fleece performance jacket. I hate the cold. I like the warmth that the layers of my clothes provide me. I see my breath, every pant that I release when I run. Seeing that, I am reminded of depression, that inability to see the light. The nights are darker in the winter, and sometimes, I feel that I’ve feel down the hole, too.
Fall. The order of the seasons are totally mixed up, the way I have presented them. Maybe the way my brain works is screwed up too. Running in the fall. I’m writing that, and I think, “Running after the fall”. Not really the same idea, but let’s go with it. A couple of years ago, I had read an article about seasonal depression, and thought “Such things exist?” When I was younger, I had a fascination with fall, the bright explosion of colors and the juxtaposition of upcoming dreariness. The death of color. The crunchy leaves underneath my feet. Running during this season is annoying. The coldness just intensifies by day. I look forward to Thanksgiving break so I don’t have to run outside anymore. But, I run on my own time after Thanksgiving break when the weather is a little bit more relenting.
What am I running after? What is that thing that causes me to run so blindly after, doubting every step like I’m walking on a rickety bridge that connects two places, with a deep canyon below? I am reminded of the time I went to the CN Tower in Toronto, and I stood on the glass (Plexiglas) floor, staring all the way down. Was I afraid? A little. I saw everything below me, spanning in all directions. That sense of being above nearly everything stuck with me. The utter beauty! Will I ever feel that again?
I wonder. Will I feel like I’ve achieved a peak, an apex, a zenith of my own life, made up of the own things that I’ve built someday? I run, sometimes towards that foggy goal, that amorphous distant thing. I saunter towards it. I walk towards it. Sometimes, when I don’t know what I’m doing and for what, I’d like to think that I’m crawling towards it. Hopefully I’m in the right direction.
I’m not an athlete. I’m not a track runner. I’m not an avid sports fan. However, running helps me clear my head. It’s so easy, so effortless, running in one direction, not caring. So whatever the season, I find myself running, towards an unknown goal, or merely to back home.