First and final chapter
Robin hit the ground, running at her absolute physical limits. Razor-sharp branches tore her shirt as rough-edged stones painfully penetrated the hardened callouses of her feet. Run. Run as though your life depends on it – because it does. Lose this race and you die. Run as if there is no end, no final moment, no trophy, no triumph. To run is to survive.
And if there’s one thing that Robin knows, it’s how to survive.
The pathway slowly narrowed but the slope rapidly increased. “Geometrically”, espoused an inner voice. Who thinks shit like that when the self is at risk of absence? Truly? Who sits on the cusp of non-existence to pause and consider descriptive grammar?
I do. Robin the not-so-clever. Robin the who-the-fuck-cares. Let’s just get past oblivion, and discuss the pros and cons of grammatical correctness some other time, shall we?
Her breaths came hard now. Too hard. That means we’re not getting into a rhythm. Where there is no rhythm there is no story. That’s the old saw isn’t it? Get the rhythm and run ’round the world. All we have to do is to focus. Not on the stones, not on the thorns. Not on what is behind or what is ahead. Just focus on your breathing, and your rhythm. Like a tantric chant. That’s it. A Tantric chant! Let the body regain itself, and let the self regain the body. If that’s not Tantra then it’s what Tantra should be.
Who the fuck said that? If I can’t even bring my mind into order, how am I going to regain control of my life? They say the self drives the body, yet I can’t even work out which self is driving my self. Who is saying this, even as I think it? Is that me clinging to a Cartesian rock in a sea of existential doubt? That’s not self-discovery, it’s just the self-obvious, and I’m not playing that game. I am me. Hello to the me that I am!
Breathing is better now. One breath in, three breaths out. Pace breathing with your steps on this shit pathway. Only, it’s more a ladder than a pathway. When did it become so steep?
If I’m finding it hard then they can’t be finding it any easier. And they’re carrying my death with them. I hope it breaks your fucking backs, you bastards. While I can breathe, the chances are you can’t. Not when you’re lumping my doom on your shoulders, over your backs or between your whimpy arse-cheeks. You will not catch me. You will never catch me.
And you, my shit-face non-friends, will return empty handed to face the music. The requiem of your own ending. And while that song plays, I will be free.
I will laugh, I will breathe, I will run, and I will be free.
