I run.

I run.

With every sinew, every muscle, I run. 

I don't know what I'm running from or where I'm running to, but I run anyway,

The world erupts around me, changing from barren sand dunes to lush greens. Rocks give birth to trees, trees give way to more rocks that now become glaciers, glaciers that always turn red.

I hate running in the blood. It feels warm and sticky beneath my toes. It splashes up skirt, tainting the pure white fabric with speckles. I keep on running even though I can feel the tears welling in my eyes because I know the blood will eventually harden then crack into particles that somehow becomes sand, No matter how far I run, I always come back to the sand. 

Occasionally, I see shadows on the horizon, or see furtive figures in the undergrowth. I can never reach them, they vanish like mirages. Sometimes I hear voices. I shake my head, try and ignore them. I don't understand what they say. 

I imagine places. Lots of places. Some feel familiar. Sometimes I can conjure up faces but I don't know where they come from. 

Today something changed and I stopped running.

Today, I found myself in a room where I couldn't run, couldn't walk or stand, Couldn't sit or turn my head. A room where my eyes hurt as though they hadn't been used for a long time. 

Now I'm running again, back in the sand and the rocks, back in the water and the blood, back with the shadows and the voices. The room was different, different is good.