I’ve been trying to run a lot lately but I can’t, or don’t. I forget or it rains, or I fail to find time. I sit on the couch instead, and play games. Listen to podcasts like an IV and let my hands concern themselves with an eternal revolution. The stick pushed forward or trigger pulled, my feet pulsing along a corridor or skaters valhalla. I fall over, explode or ‘splode into embers. But always, I tick back into existence, perhaps prompted with the offer of a tutu. I get up, roll on, and keep land streaming behind me.

 On these concrete planes I paint my line, twisting in scribbles like an infantile John Hancock. No need to blink, my performance is music; framed in crescendos and joyous little melodies; twist, spin, flip then smack and glide. My eyes don’t even focus, only my thumbs jerk the puppet strings. Even when my pencil lead breaks and my scrawl stutters to a messy halt, I understand, it was gravity. Get up, go again. Dirt on your shirt and a split shin. No matter, we’ll dance with this cold and sterile thing and, for a while, make it dance back.

 There are no concerns in the wind of fleeting images, even if they strobe with my frequent vaults into fire. My accelerator roars mute, mouth open, reveling in the challenge of some demonic incline. Again and again. My rider finds ecstasy in his communion with his machine, and I with mine. We are indefatigable, flippant enough to throw our faults away for free, tumble to the air, so long as the warehouse roof doesn’t catch us first. And always we know, the end is inexorable. It will come, five hundred tries or thirty minutes on, and when it does I tap my thumb, ignoring the accusation of merit, as, no doubt, my rider taps his foot and waits to GO again.

 I’m reading grammar in walls and platforms and perfected curves of flight. He is running, the man, always running, without question, I’ve done his biding. I’m the enabler and the handler, forming his madness into progress. My eyes are tickled by his playhouse vocabulary of hurt. Meat for blood and kaboom as commodity. He’s a devil without intention, only propulsion, yet I gladly concede. Please, let me help your gibberish. Together we can form some godly sentences.

 I think I may be lazy. I have ran and I have got myself lost in it. The judder of gaining ground and my breathing getting shallow. I look forward and the world bleeds behind me, gone forever. But I lack something that good people have, the ability to persuade myself of the worth of an act. I think of the sweat and the pain. Time wasted and the inkling of a headache. To depress the green X and sit, it’s so much easier it’s sugar.