I deeply resent runners. All sorts of runners. Professional ones. Park runners. Thread-mill runners. Accidental runners. Occasional. Fictional. Long distance ones. Literary. High end running gear types. Quirky beginners. Old, experienced and grumpy runners. Runners with dogs, children and stolen goods.
Their world is beyond the grainy shadow of a doubt a lesser one. Constantly running late for buses. People cursing at you while being nintendoishly distanced. Worlds flickering by like windshield-bugs being tarnished under persistent wipers.
Wormwood knees.
Cold. Mud. Heart failure.
So as a part of a suicide attempt, I decided to become one. To exit this world in the guise of this lowest creature of them all. Skipping over picnic blankets and finally exhaling in a pool of sweat and mucus (noun a viscous, slimy mixture of mucins, water, electrolytes, epithelial cells, and leukocytes that is secreted by glands lining the nasal, esophageal, and other body cavities and serves primarily to protect and lubricate surfaces.), a million cigarettes and cheap drinks being evacuated in a last, strenuous blow.
It is now three months later. I'm still circling Volkspark Friedrichshain. And Volkspark Prenzlauer Berg. And the Fennpfuhlpark. And the Blankensteinpark. All the way to the bakery and back with fresh bread and yoghurt or quark.
This apparently isn't working.
It's time to up the stakes. Time to end this atrocity. Sunday. This Sunday. At the Berliner Halbmarathon I surely must make it. Goodbye fiction. Goodbye pre and post God. I am going to the eternal pool hall in the sky to play snooker with Alex Higgins. It's been a hoot!
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