what i scream about when i dream about racing

The rabbit smeared across the coarse asphalt, its viscera glistening in the morning sun. The realisation I have nothing left to give. The Italian guy in fluorescent shorts with the shit-eating grin  —  who keeps accelerating past me, only to immediately slow to a jog 20 centimetres ahead of me.  An accidental pregnancy. The disarming sensation of pins and needles radiating from my fingers to my chest. Any finish time beginning with the numbers 1:30.  A sharp, pain pinging in rhythm, in my knee. Trudging into the woods with a cardboard box, a mud-caked shovel and a dog in tow. Losing my breath, my voice and my words. Missed people, missed goals. These are just some of the things I scream about because of the life I have chosen. The wake-in-terror-bolt-upright realisations that pull me back from sleep. I've long credited running as a kind of natural mood stabiliser, enhancer even, keeping me on an even keel, protecting me from a humiliating surrender to internal despai...