As the light seeped through the cracks, she tossed and turned, with her paperback in hand. It was the third Agatha Christie novel she had finished, yet it was only Tuesday. She read compulsively when she couldn’t write, and she’d left her pen back in Ireland. Restless and still riding the wave of last night’s buzz, she arose.
With her regular bright and early starts in the fresh, crisp suburban air, she strapped on her neon Nike’s and ran. The birds chirped in the background as the bunnies scampered from her path. Her connections with the universe lay snug beneath her pillow as she became more in tune than ever with this fluid, lively world. She crossed paths with golf carts and exchanged hellos with elderly couples on their morning stroll. She’d turned off the screen; she was meant for now.
With a nocturnal internal clock, this hour of smoke-free clarity was her reality check, the string to her balloon. No matter how deep into those woods she wandered, the sun was always found at daybreak.
Her feet carried her miles away. She’d left behind the writer’s block, the hangover, and another loathed face still peacefully asleep in her bed. If only she had the stamina she would run forever. She would never go home. This wasn’t her reality check. It was her escape from her escapism, for this was everyone’s world except for hers. She didn’t inhabit or thrive in this terrene, she dabbled in it. She was a tourist in the realm of normality, and her visa was moments from expiration. She would always have to go home. Her love life was nothing but a running gag, with more endurance than she.
22 August 2013
A Gag That Runs by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.