Running Hour

The sun, a molten coin sinking fast, stretches shadows into distorted giants that mimic my own fleeting form pounding the pavement. Running Hour. Not quite day, not yet night. A liminal space painted in hues of bruised orange and reluctant blue. The world slows, or perhaps it's just me, caught in this rhythmic trance of breath and stride. Each footfall a small rebellion against the inertia of the day, the pull of the screen, the weight of words unsaid. What am I running from? Or toward? The questions dissolve in the burn of my lungs, the insistent thrum of my heartbeat. Here, in this self-imposed exile, there is a strange clarity. The worries that clung like damp clothes begin to loosen, shaken off with each exhalation. The anxieties, sharp-edged and insistent, soften, their voices fading into the twilight hum of the city. This hour, stolen from the demands, belongs only to the body, to the primal rhythm of movement. A conversation not with screens or voices, but with the earth beneath my feet, the air against my skin. The streetlights begin to bloom, artificial stars in the fading glow. The world transitions, and I with it, shedding the skin of the day, preparing for the quiet of night. But in this running hour, there is a truth unearthed, a quiet understanding of the self unburdened, moving freely in the space between. A fleeting meditation in motion, a reminder that sometimes, the most profound thoughts are found not in stillness, but in the relentless rhythm of a body in flight. ©bfa051325