Run like hell

I might as well admit: I'm getting tired. I dragged myself to work this morning, afterwhich I dragged my self to the library, afterwhich I let public transportation drag me to my lunchdate. After that I dragged myself home, collapsed on the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. I really must have my blood checked one of these days, I feel Black Death or what not coming on. Ignoring the stabbing pain in various parts of my body, I read something about ancient Rome, and I had some interesting messenger-conversations. Stretching my willpower to the limit, I got up again and dragged myself to the station to procure some traintickets. As I was dying on my way back home, it started to rain.

Most of you think I'm strange anyway, so I might as well confess: I am starch raving mad. I am, as they say, a looney. I put on my oldest sweater-and-pants and I went jogging. Jogging in the rain is an experience that can be situated somewhere in between spiritual and sexual, but most of all, it's just good. So good. What does one run from? From Want. From what everyone else wants from me, from what I want from everybody else, from what I want from me. From every thought that isn't strictly necessary for basic functioning. From the pain in my kidneys and arms, from the painfully swollen glands that have been bothering me the last few days. From Musharafs Emergency, and from neoliberal globalization. So the trick is: when my mind goes blank (after about 17 minutes of moderate jogging), I take off my sweater (it's 5 degrees celsius, as it should be) and in my tank top, I run like hell. How does hell run? Hell runs fast, without looking back or forward, with every muscle tense, while rain pours down on bare skin (arms, shoulders, face, chest), on fallen autumn leaves, and in the river Styx (it's called Coupure, in Ghent, they tell me). After about five minutes of that, I find a front door again, soaked, breathing heavily, trembling but cured. I start making dinner, posting rubbish on blogs, and planning my UK-weekend. (And yes, I am listening to Avril Lavigne, but don't tell anyone. In my defense: it's not my CD.) Sometimes (i.e. a few times a week), You've got to run away, to really come back home.

So, to compensate you guys for this rather long and existential blogpost: I give you: more chickens:

Self-relativation is the shit...