a jog

one time you went jogging down a footpath near your apartment building. it was a winding, dusty trail that led past slouching houses with dirty windows peering into darkened entry ways. it was broad daylight. you didn't jog too fast because you didn't know the path, and it turned quickly and grew wider or narrower as it slithered through the web of buildings, water pipes, rails, tiny courtyards, occasional streets. sometimes you saw old, lonely-looking people sitting in the houses, doing nothing, merely a glimpse. they seemed like ghosts or holograms, disconnected from the visceral sweaty run of life. you floated past them, they floated past you, trapped in the past. you were restraining your breathing and unconsciously reluctant to make heavy steps, to leave a trace of yourself, to even be seen. you didn't belong, but you were there. after the jog, returning to your apartment and stepping inside, you felt light, unpinned, as though your energy had been displaced. instinctively, you went to the living room to look out the window and see if anyone was running by or watching you. remember?

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