The Runner

Nine o'clock struck, and the rush hour was in its peak. Busy people around every corner, chasing routines with blank looks on their faces, hurried to places they had to be at. Bounded by tight schedules, they could only push forward, walking in a rush, with tunnel visions filtering out on their way anything that's exceptional, beautiful or thought-invoking. Caught into a spiral of their own routines, they marched unwary of their surroundings, minds programmed only to meet certain conditions and disregard everything else.
But inside this nearly mechanical mass, a man tore through, running. Passing one person after another, he looked at them and began to wonder. If they were in such a hurry, why wouldn't they run? That question bothered him every time he found himself amidst them. Was he the only one to realize the simple truth that running is a better and more efficient way to go through life? Was he the only one that knew runners have a natural advantage over those who walk? For him, it was a matter of simple logic, yet no one around seemed to be able to grasp it.

Trying to push this inexplicable phenomenon out of his mind, the runner broke out of the crowd, and from the grid of streets in the centre of the city, he moved south, past the newly-built hospital and into the adjacent park. Deep into the green heart of the city, amidst the oaks, lindens and all the greenery around them that was slowly coming back to life, on a small wooden bench sat a young boy; his eyes gazed at wildly dancing birds that were fighting over crumbs spilled on the wide pathway before him. An old lady resting right across of his place was, with the greatest care, picking off one soft bit of the loaf after another and throwing them to the birds, while eating the crusts herself. The boy lacked a smile on his face, the look he had in his eyes was more of an anxious one, the look of a troubled dreamer. He was quite young, maybe eleven or twelve years old. The only clothes he had on himself were a gown and a pair of sneakers, nothing more, and nothing less. Truly a fine-looking boy he was, even with a little bit of plumpness, his brown hair curly and lush, cheeks lively pinkish and chubby. The runner wanted to run past him and the birds, across the lawn, but before he had the chance to, the boy raised his open hand, giving him a somewhat ambiguous signal meant most likely to either greet or stop him.
"Um, excuse me, sir, but... Why are you running?" the boy asked, lowering his hand. "Dressed like that, I mean."
The runner slowed down up to a point where he stopped moving forward and started to jog in place. He wasn't dressed appropriately for running, rather put focus on the presentation. The snow-white shirt contrasted perfectly with the slick black suit, both made out of silk and shining like a lone star on the sky.
"I'm running out of time," he answered calmly and looked at the boy. "What about you? Why are you just sitting here?"
"Well, I'd like to run, but I can't. I'm..."
"Of course you can," the runner interrupted him. "You're so young you could run anywhere you want. Stop making excuses for yourself."
The boy started to form an answer, but the runner didn't let him finish; he suddenly broke the eye contact and started to run again. There was no goodbye and no gesture, as if the time simply run out, and he was forced by something to move on. The boy kept his confused look on the runner as he was disappearing behind the trees. Few moments later, he was gone.

Leaving the park, the runner chose to run farther south, on a sidewalk leading to a small arch bridge connecting the heart of the city with the Southside. Soon after crossing that bridge, a ten-foot-high stonewall that bound the local cemetery blocked his way. Wrapped into thick creepers, it was easy to climb onto; yet, the runner chose to ignore that possibility. He turned right and ran alongside it until a half-opened steel gate revealed itself to his eyes behind the corner. Save for the handle, it was wholly covered with rust.
Ignoring common sense, the runner slipped in confidently and continues running. The path he was on tended to twist around, and had he stayed on it, his progress to the exit located at the southeast corner would have gone at a very slow pace. To avoid that, the runner decided to run straight towards it, ignoring the path. And although he tried not to step where he shouldn't have, a few times it happened he knocked over a candle or left a mark of his shoe's sole on a bouquet of flowers or even atop a tombstone. The people who tended to the eternal beds of their loved ones noticed him, and with faces full of contempt for his running, as the cemetery was a place of rest, not activity, and his complete lack of respect for the dead, they cursed him time and again under their breath. The runner didn't mind; for him, the most important thing was to get to his destination in time, no matter what he would have to run over on his way through.
But to his surprise, among all of those people, there was one that stood out. An old man sitting not by someone's grave, but on a bench under an enormous, majestic oak that must have been growing over there for hundreds of years. As the runner was passing him by, he was stopped by a sudden, surprisingly energetic question.
"Who are you running to, kid? That's pretty inconsiderate to just trample on everything in a place like this. You must have a good reason, right? Not that I think any reason would be good enough to run through someone's grave."
"I'm not running to anyone. I'm running out of time," the answer sounded. "You should try to run too, you know, instead of just sitting here."
The old man chuckled.
"Me? I don't have to run anywhere, kid. Everything I want and need is within my reach."
Intrigued by his words, the runner kept jogging in place.
"That's sad, if you ask me. How come everything you supposedly need can be found here? I mean, what is here? Death and nothing more. Is that really what you want?"
"That's what it takes," the man answered cryptically, still smiling. "I've already fallen behind."
The runner sighed disappointingly, and just like during his conversation with the boy, as if he was stolen by some higher deity, he suddenly took off, without a single word.

Leaving the cemetery through the southeast exit, the runner headed north, through another arch bridge, to the Eastside. From there, seeing how the narrow sidewalk was constantly blocked by strolling people, he decided to follow the parallel and relatively empty bike path. Not much time had to pass before the angry bikers started to ring at him and call him names as he didn't want to get off the road that had been designed specifically for them. The runner remained unmoved; the path he was on was much more efficient for his purpose, so he chose to ignore everyone who had a problem with it and keep running. However, remembering the people he had seen some time ago, the runner turned around and, while running backwards, waited for a biker to come close, hoping to get an answer to his newly-thought question.
"Dude..." someone finally approached. "Get out of the way. There's a sidewalk, like, right next to you. What the hell are you running for over here?" The biker asked angrily, slowing down not to hit the runner.
"The bike path suits me better, and I'm running out of time," he answered and with some weird excitement in his voice followed with the question. "So, why are you riding a bike?"
"What? What kind of... Eh. For fun, I guess, which you're effectively trying to ruin, so get out of the way!" he replied, getting more irritated with every second. Upon hearing the answer, the runner once again was struck by disappointment.
"Pointless" he muttered, shaking his head. "What a waste of time. It's like I'm the only sane person on this planet..."
"What the hell are you babbling about?" The biker screamed seeing how the runner is drifting off with his thoughts. "Just get out of the goddamn way!"
The runner sighed again, turned around and headed west, to the centre of the city. The biker stopped and frowned in confusion. Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, he eventually ignored the runner, sped up and went ahead, trying to forget the weird encounter he had just experienced.

Nine o'clock struck, and the rush hour was in its peak. Having reached the centre of the city, the runner once again started to push through the crowd, proudly presenting his superior way of life to all those who refused to adapt to his pace. Nonetheless, however confident and full of joy he might have felt at that moment, there was something at the back of his mind, a feeling or a thought that clashed with his cheery mood. He didn't have a chance to think about it more, for it disappeared as soon as he left the crowd, and there was no point in pondering something that had already passed.

Heading south, the runner ran past the hospital and once again laid his feet on the park's ground. The boy he had met there the last time was sitting in the same place as then, looking at birds gathered on the pathway under his feet. Being just a little curious, the runner approached him.
"They are hungry" the boy declared worriedly and glanced at the empty bench across of him. He looked somewhat different, seemed no more plump and a little pale on his face.
"They're just birds, leave them be."
"I'd rather not, sir, I like to observe them, and it worries me how they fight for food. There's not much of it left, and I don't want them to get hurt."
"Birds don't fight. They'll find food on their own, if not here, then somewhere else" pressed the runner. "Stop worrying about such trivial things. You shouldn't waste your time here".
"But what if they die from hunger? The lady that was always feeding them is not here anymore," he kept talking, getting more and more concerned with every sentence.
"There's like a million of other old hags that do it elsewhere. They'll find them. Or eat sand, I don't know. Have you ever seen a dead bird that wasn't hit by a car? I haven't, so here's your answer. They'll be fine."
And once again, without a glimpse of hesitation, the runner took off, leaving the unconvinced boy behind with no chance to answer.

Departing from the park, the runner headed south, towards the familiar bridge. Seeing the calmly flowing waters of the river below it, he realized just how good it would be to dive into it and cool off. The scorching sun that happened to be at the highest possible point did not work well with the suit he was wearing. Keeping it on wasn't a good idea, that he knew, but even in this sweltering heat, and with the sweat trickling down his whole body, he was willing to make that sacrifice in order to arrive at his destination dressed properly. With that resolve in mind, he pushed forward, and once he met the cemetery's stone border, he took a right turn. Eventually, after passing the wall's corner, he opened the steel gate and entered the once profaned by him place.
This time wasn't any different: he ran through everything that stood in his way, ignored people's damning reactions and once again took notice of the old man sitting right under the beautiful oak. The runner approached him and started to jog in place.
"Oh, it's you again... Still being a jackass, eh, kid?" the man gave him a cold welcome.
"I'd rather be a jackass than waste time like you. You shouldn't sit around here all day, just do something for Christ sake."
"Why? I have nowhere to go. I'm fine as it is."
"But you can still run, you know? Why would you want to sit here for the rest of your life? Find yourself new friends and make something of the time you have left."
The man shook his head, weary of the runner's constant advice.
"Look, kid, I neither want nor need new friends. I'm just too old to start again. There's no need for me to run, or walk, or look for anything. That's not how it works, at least in my experience. Maybe I was lucky, or maybe I made the right life choices, but the end result is that I feel fulfilled with the life I've had. I've got everything I ever wanted.
"You got nothing. You've wasted your life on people," the hidden frustration leaking from his voice became quite clear at that point.
The old man chuckled, trying not to laugh out loud.
"Wasted? So, what would I have to do in order for my life not to be wasted?"
The runner grimaced and suddenly rushed off in silence, but whether it was because he didn't want to continue the conversion, or because of the usual reasons, he couldn't exactly tell.

Heading north from the cemetery, the runner crossed the other familiar bridge and ended up in the Eastside. Still feeling the effects of wearing a suit under a high sun, he got to his private running lane, more commonly known as the bike path.
"Oh, god, not you again..." a familiar voice raised behind him.
He turned his head and noticed the young biker he had once met. Not wanting to get into another pointless conversation, the rider bypassed him swiftly.
"Hey, wait!" a sudden shout came from the runner. The biker gasped, as if he was in pain, and reluctantly slowed down to match the runner's speed.
"What do you want?" he asked coldly, without looking at his conversation partner. The runner caught up to him.
"You know, I've been wondering; why won't you try to become a professional cyclist?"
"I don't want to," the answer was blunt.
"Why? You're just wasting time riding for no reason like that."
"Look who's talking," the biker snorted "You're the one who's running, so why not answer yourself?"
"I have a goal, and you're riding just for the sake of it"
"Exactly. I'm riding for enjoyment, get it? That's what normal people sometimes do. How can I get this through your thick skull? It's not rocket science, you know, but to be fair, what can I expect from a guy who runs dressed like that? You're such a weirdo, man. Just do me a favour - get off the road and stop bothering me, because you're ruining my time here!"
The runner rolled his eyes, unimpressed by the biker's rant, and headed west without saying a word.
"What the hell is wrong with you!?" he heard a shout coming from behind.

Nine o'clock struck, and the rush hour was in its peak. Tall skyscrapers and dense crowds at the very centre of the city surrounded the runner. For some reason, he didn't feel too well being there, as if the image of those ghost-like people was trying to drill something into his head, a terrifying thought that he kept refusing to welcome. Just being there, among them, made him feel as if he was being succumbed, forcefully adjusted to their pace, to walking. Not wanting to stay there any longer, he eventually made it out of the crowd, but the feeling that his increasing malaise was not coincidental proved too hard to ignore.

Running south and passing the hospital, the runner arrived at the park once again. There were no birds anymore, just the boy sitting alone, at the usual place. His face was pale, cheeks sunken, head without a hair, and gown still worn.
"Why are you not running?" asked the runner, approaching.
"I'm running out of time, sir"
That answer the runner somewhat expected. He kept jogging in place in a brief silence.
"So, what's with the birds?" he finally broke it.
"They're coming," the boy replied with a smile. He reached for a pocket in his gown and revealed a handful of sunflower seeds. Suddenly, from afar, a song echoed, of hungry pigeons lusting for food. They appeared slowly, one after another, until a whole flock in an almost perfectly lined formation of five rows dived from the sky. They landed everywhere - on the road, the grass, the bench, the boy and his head, shoulders and legs. He kept his hand tightly closed, and so the birds waited.
"I thought them that," the boy grinned.
He opened his hand, picked up one seed out of the lump of them and gave it to a bird sitting on his shoulder.
"You're wasting time," noticed the runner. "Just throw it and let them eat it from the ground."
"I told you, sir, I don't want them to fight."
"They are going to fight eventually," he concluded coldly and then did the usual. Used to his weird actions, the boy ignored him and focused on feeding the birds as carefully as he could.

The runner headed south, passed the bridge and turned right before the wall in order to get to the gate and then go past it. What transpired inside was typical of the runner, and the people's reactions were as hostile as ever. In a short while, he got to the giant oak. The tree was losing its beautiful, warm-coloured leaves profusely. As they were falling around, torn from the twigs by a merciless wind, they formed a tattered curtain that almost hid the old man from the runner's eyes. But there he was. One could easily see he was way past his pensioner's prime part of life. The way he was sitting, slouching, as if he was about to collapse and fall into his own grave, at first glance made it hard to establish whether he was still alive, or maybe someone just forgot to bury him and left him like that.
"Hah, you should have run as I've been telling you," the runner commented cheekily, but to his surprise, the seemingly corpse-like body was suddenly filled with life; the slouch lessened, and the vigorous voice gave an impression of a strong, healthy man.
"I'm running out of time," he grinned and brimmed with happiness, and the only thing the runner could do was to shake his head in disappointment.
"You're such a fool."
The man leaned forward again, still smiling, while the leaves kept falling on his body, slowly hiding it from the eyes of the living.

Staying on his usual track, the runner headed north. Even though the sidewalk was fairly empty, he still chose to run next to it, and after a few minutes, a familiar bike passed him by.
"You're running out of time!" the runner shouted at him from behind.
The reaction was momentary; the biker hit the brakes, stopped and turned his head around, angrier than ever.
"You're a real pain in the ass, you know!? Not only you're blocking the way, but you just have to bother me every time we meet. Are you bored with your life or what? Leave me alone and let me ride my goddamn bike in peace!"
"But it's pointless," the way he said it was so carefree that one could assume he was trying to provoke.
"I don't care! Just forget we ever met, okay? And move out of the way! Do you see me riding on the path for pedestrians? No? Do you know why? Because I'm not an idiot!? Only one of those paths is suitable for you, and it's not the one you are on! Do you get it!? Some smart people, surely smarter than you, made this division, so we could..."
And just like that, the runner left the path and headed west, without much care.
"God damn it!" the biker cried out furiously and the only thing to answer him was his echo.

Nine o'clock struck, and the rush hour was in its peak. The feeling of dvu the runner felt was close to terrifying, and the worst of it was that he didn't know why. Surrounded by people he thought inferior to him, he should have felt good, enlightened, on the right path, and yet, he didn't. The ultimate realization was slowly but steadily forming in his mind, but he once again managed to escape its claws.

The runner headed south, past the hospital, and entered the park. The boy whom he had met a couple of times before, as well as the bench he had been sitting on, was not present anymore. In its place, a monument stood, and around it an arc of wooden birdhouses filled with sparrows, pigeons and tiny bowls full of seeds and bread. The runner took a quick look from afar, but being completely disinterested, he decided not to approach and to run forward instead, straight to the exit.

From there, he moved towards the Southside and then finally reached the cemetery. The gate was closed, to his surprise, and he couldn't notice anyone behind it. Reaching for the handle, he realized it was not there anymore. Only rust remained. He looked up and noticed the leafless oakin the distance; it was so barren it almost made him sad, but he wasn't sure why. Not having much of a choice, he took the detour and continued to run alongside the wall.

Eventually, he made it to the Eastside. Running on the bike path, he was constantly looking behind his shoulder, hoping to see the familiar face of the biker. He was nowhere to be seen.
"Did he run out of time?" the runner wondered but quickly lost the thought and headed west.

Nine o'clock struck, and the rush hour was in its peak. The runner once again found himself amidst the walkers, but this time something was different. He felt no more uneasy or concerned about some mysterious thing boggling his mind, because after all those times he had run through that crowded place, a seed of an idea finally managed to ripe inside his head and bear fruit to one, single question. A question that would surely make a huge impact on the way he perceived his life; a question that would undermine everything he had believed in and worked for; a question that would either help him wake up or push him through the point of no return. When he first noticed the crowd, it was only a matter of seconds before it came down on him.
"Why do I constantly find myself among those who walk when all I do is run?" he finally let it out of his mouth.
And just like that, as if some tightly closed door in his head was finally left open, a flood of other questions burgled into his mind. Wasn't he supposed to get ahead of them with running? If so, then why is he here? Was all he did pointless? Is it possible that he is not the only sane person on this planet, but quite the opposite? Is it him who doesn't understand some kind of simple truth that every other person here does? How, what, why - those were the words that coordinated every thought he had in his mind at that moment. Like entering a higher state of consciousness, it was a truly life-changing event, much too hard for him to handle. In this waterfall of thoughts, the answer was falling his way, getting closer with every second. He was too scared to face it; it was too hard to avoid. Escape was the only viable option. He had to run.

North, and north only, was the direction he chose, just forward, without turning, without following any street, any sidewalk or any path, no matter what stood in his way, straight to his destination; that's what he focused on, while trying to purge his mind of any thoughts and emotions. He wanted to run like a wind, without a care in the world.

Fighting with his own brain, he didn't even notice when the whole of the Northside was already past him. The runner ended up on a simple two-lane street leading out of the city into territories ruled by Mother Nature. As the road went by, he could notice how the civilization was slowly fading away from his view. At first disappeared only the skyscrapers, but soon after the residential buildings, shopping centres and factories followed, then houses, both small and big, and finally farms. Farther along there were only meadows filled with herds of sheep and cows, also singular trees, which soon grew in numbers, leading the way to a forest so naked, it might have been considered dead. How much time had passed before he reached it, the runner didn't know. The sun was already gently touching the horizon, and the moon was too shy to appear anywhere on the sky.

As the big star was slowly hiding away, the darkness enveloped the forest. The runner's visibility was dwindling, detaching him from the reality even more. In time, he wasn't even able to tell whether he's still in the forest or not, for the only thing he could see were the outlines of his black shoes and a tiny piece of the road surrounding them. The only source of light came from the cars that were seldom passing him by. They managed to illuminate the area for mere seconds, but to his eyes adjusted to darkness, they brought nothing but pain.

The temperature kept decreasing, and the snow started falling like mad. For quite some time now the suit hadn't been able to hold off the cold, but the snowfall made even more of a difference. The runner's body started to tremble, beginning its cry for help, but he continued to run, keeping his empty look on the horizon and subconsciously hoping to see his destination unveil itself from behind the black curtain. But there was nothing except void.

The cold was slowly getting to him. The fever had already struck his body, there was no question about it, and his legs were becoming weaker with every minute. Not much time had to pass before the snow completely soaked his suit, and the freezing wind pushed his body on a track towards the hypothermia. His ambitious run was slowly changing into a painful challenge, but he kept going, and his goal kept being unreachable.

The awkward staggering was all that remained from what had started as a zestful run. The runner realized he couldn't block his mind anymore; he couldn't look away every time the terrifying realization looked into his eyes. Thoughts and emotions were the only things that could keep him sane in this pitch darkness, so he let his mid loose, with a great hope it would not turn against him. The time of heavy thinking finally came, and there was a bottomless bag of things he wanted to ponder: his life, the people he had met, his goals and his dreams, what had been and what should have been, the right and wrong choices he had made, the successes and failures he had had; but most importantly, he wanted to find answers to his questions and then accept them, no matter how painful they might be. He asked himself each and every of them out loud, and then gave an honest answer from the bottom of his heart.

And then he stopped.

After all those years, he finally ceased to run. What a weird feeling it was, not having to rush anywhere. Different and distant, a little guilt-tripping, yet pleasant, it changed his perception and gave an opportunity to see the world differently, encouraged him to take his time instead of fretting it might run out. He carefully looked around and still saw nothing, but his ears caught the mellow sound of trees swaying in the wind. He couldn't see them, yet he knew they were there, and it made him feel as if he discovered something new, something he had been ignoring for all of his life. He felt happy, but his happiness was only brief. Pushing back the positive emotions, he decided to face the harsh reality. He looked where his goal was supposed to be and understood that there is no light awaiting him at the end of that road, just a powerful black hole that would swallow him completely if he chose to follow it. Then he looked the other way and again saw nothing, not a glimpse of light, and he understood that his run had taken him too far to go back and change his path. Even though he finally had the will to make a different choice, he didn't have time to make it matter. He sat on the ground, barely feeling his shaking legs, still miraculously keeping him afoot, and having a false hope a car would stop by and help him out. But he knew all too well it would not happen.
"Survival of the fittest!" he started to laugh, feeling how his strength is gradually fading.
There was nothing he could do at this point but to wait in peace, enjoying the leftovers of his life. Such a good feeling it was to just sit and not run; such a shame it was to realize it only now.

Lying on the snow-covered street, he could feel how the trembling of his body was slowly diminishing. His suit was half-frozen at this point, but it made no difference; for him, it still had been a good decision to wear it. His destination might have changed, but his outfit was as much fitting as before. He was happy about that, yet it brought tears to his eyes, for it was tragic that such a ridiculous matter was the only thing he could be happy about.
"What a pointless life I led," he mustered his final thought, unfulfilled, alone, joyless. His eyes closed and breath flattened to a point of being virtually non-existent. The mind gave up, and the shell of his existence remained, swallowed by darkness and buried under the snow. The curtain fell. He ran out of time.

Nine o'clock struck and the rush hour was no more.