It’s a terminal illness

Running, my favourite excuse not to turn myself into papier-mâché. If the night is thick enough, the waves loud enough, and I run hard enough I may just forget the disgusting faces of the people I love, or is it disgusted. The moment I stop running images of scissors pop into my mind, so I guess I’ll just keep running, no matter how much my heart asks me to stop. Noise blends into the background to the point of complete silence, that’s why when the seagulls squawk it takes me back to reality and right out of it as well. I take my headphones off and look up to see two seagulls circle me like Vultures, makes sense my blood is too full of salt for some desert bird. Sea water brings me peace of mind, never happiness, but now it’s brought me confusion. What sea birds would be out at this time, I’m curious, why are they circling me, can they swoop, shit now I’m scared, so I run. I leg it, they follow me, chasing my sent like rabid dogs without the rabid part. They don’t swoop me, but I anticipate it, like a wedding. I run to the point where my heart forces me to stop and I fall to the ground without thinking about the sand that surrounds me, attaches itself without a clear way out. I look to the sky with what looks like bravery but is actually called apathy, maybe a little excitement. The birds are taken away with the wind, I don’t know what I’ll do when they come back. I wait for the wind to change.