There is a place, not far from here, where the benches are wooden and yellow and the sun sets behind the trees quietly, like most other sunsets. The darkness isn't compelling and nothing about the place is intrusive.

The people there look through you and walk by because they are fighting with their own demons, or the lack of them, and don't really need to worry about why your eyes look swollen or why you have lost questionable amounts of weight in the days gone by. The couples there are fighting but their voices make no sound, it's like bubbles under water or fear that lets you scream in silence. 

Then you walk by and you break into a jog and before you know it you're running full pelt, the wind breaking against your face and your nose running diffidently. Then eventually you come to a point from where you started and you realize that you have gone around the scheme of things once and finally you don't feel better per se, but you definitely feel different and that's hardly a bad thing. 

The sea was washed away in the darkness. It was the thick, unshakable kind of darkness, where you open your eyes as wide as they’ll go to be able to see something.

The street lamps threw their dim yellow light in tight circles away from the shore. We ran under this light, fixing our gaze on a faraway defunct ship with a red light. That’s where we had to run to.

It was chilly in parts. Through those parts we ran faster, to get rid of the goose bumps. In some parts, we saw slivers of star light through the black blanket. It was amusing, as though the star was peeking out into the forbidden land.

By the time we got to the ship, we were out of breath. The darkness had lifted and we stood staring at the pink-blue sky, clutching our sides and panting.

We walked back in a begrudging manner. The sea had come out of its slumber. Somewhere behind us at the distance, the red blinking light on the ship was nowhere to be seen.

The destination is always changing.

First it’s a lamppost, then it’s a tree, then it’s the milkman who stands by his cycle. There are no sounds at that time of the day. Not even birds, or crickets or whatever else people assume can be heard in the wee morning hours. There’s only the sound of my wheezing breath; like that of a dying person. When I hold my breath, I can hear my feet hitting the ground in a clumsy fashion.

Pat and Pat and Pat.

I count backwards from hundred, then from two hundred and then from five hundred. I try singing songs in my head, like a mental radio. I sound horrible even in the privacy of my mind where there is no audience. I try shutting my eyes because perhaps the dark endless road will create some kind of an illusion and motivate me into moving further down.

In the end, we make it. The wheezing doesn’t go away for a while. It walks back with me, like a critical friend, make silent remarks on my lack of fitness.