I Ran

I ran.

I ran with the pure intent of running, with only a nagging memory of the fact that to run was to go away. The idea that I had started running because I wanted to go away became a faint memory; but even though I was going away, I would never be far away enough.

And so, I ran.

I ran through the forest, my forest, on a path that had been abandoned long ago by the loggers. The loggers were big, strong, rich men, who always did whatever they wanted, but they never ever wanted to be in this forest, my forest. So when I ran, I was alone, as I wanted to be-- alone, going forever away, running.

I thought about breathing as I ran, because I needed to. I had to take air and force it in and out, through my teeth, through my throat, and through the sobs that welled up from my stomach, which cut each breath off too short with a funny little noise. No, I must not say "funny little noise," that would remind me of� what it is that I am running from�

I stop running for a second, feeling my lungs burn-- my heart burns, too, but not from running. I start running again.

I can not feel anything except the burning of my heart and my lungs, and a jarring sensation as the earth strikes my feet, but soon that is numb as well.

I can hear nothing-- my ears are filled with the sound of my body running, that miserable engine in the process of locomotion. The pounding of my heart, the rasping of my lungs, the pained gurgle of my stomach, the grinding of actin and myelin as muscle fibers contract and relax, contract and relax�all of it blends into a huge, solid, flowing cacophony; and I can hear the pulse of life deep within the mass of my sound. The pulse is slowing now, even as I run ever faster�

I can see nothing, either. The tears are too deep to see through, and I think that my eyes are closed most of the time, anyhow. The world outside, my forest, is but a blur of color, all colors together, moving together in the rhythm of its own life, strong and pulsing colors. But through the saltwater, I see things, running like I am, but freely-- not going anywhere, I can tell, just running, part of the forest, intangible. I watch these blurred creatures of forest-color with eyes that can not see, and I still do not look where I am going-- but I do not trip or stumble, or lose the path. The forest is my forest, and I am of the forest. I can not harm it, and it can not fail me, ever. And as I run, senseless, I feel a joy next to the anguish in my heart, love for my forest. No, no, I must not ever say "love," that would remind me� the joy is gone again, now the rasping of my breath becomes an inhuman wail, saltwater becomes deeper� and I run on.

This is not telling you what happened, only how I felt-- as well as I can describe it now, with such numbness and emptiness that I would have prayed for then. But I must now tell you what happened:

I ran for hours, through my forest. I remember night, when it became too dark to see what I did not see anyway, and I collapsed sprawled on the path. I slept; the forest's insects did not bother me, and the cold ground and frigid air together were heat to the burning ice in my heart as I slept. I slept dreaming that I was running through a forest, but not my forest, while images of before flashed beneath my eyelids. When the first light came, I awoke and the dream faded into reality as I rose and began once more to run. I had wept in my sleep, and did not stop when I awoke, and so the creatures of the forest that ran once more alongside me were still nothing but blurred phantoms.

I ran, just as I had before the night, laughing at the pounding in my joints because they should have hurt, yet did not. Instead, I was floating, like a cloud, yet in motion, like a deer, that also bounded through the forest. But the people of the forest did not run in agony, mewling and weeping, with tears flying from their soft eyes as they ran.

Then, I realize what be the creatures that run alongside of me. I still do not see nor hear, and I wonder how I know that it is the soul of the forest that is guiding me along the path, shaped as a deer. Yes, that is how I know� an odor, a most delicate and imperceptible fragrance, the aroma of life, warmth, softness, affection, a special smell�

Dear God, please, I must not think of a special smell�

I run on.

It must be around noon, because I can feel the sun on my skin, shining straight down through the tall trees. I stop running. I can not have the sun touch me-- it will burn, shed light upon things that must stay dark, and force me to hide, closer to my ice heart�

Ah, pain. I have dropped to my knees, under the weight of the sun, and hit a stone. I must move, out of the sun, for it will dry up my tears.

I feel a breath on my face, warm, cold on the saltwater. It is full of life, softness, affection� Warm dampness strokes my face, and my eyes. I feel dried salt being swept away, and my eyes are opened.

It is a streak of water that I see, with the sun reflecting on the brilliant surface. Lake, pond, or river? I do not know. It calls me- I stagger to my feet once more, and I feel a gentle, insistent nudging from behind me. Tears once more course down my cheeks as I slowly begin to limp towards the most beautiful thing in the world-- it is a small lake, in the middle of the forest. I reach out and stroke the soft fur beside me, then I run.

I do not remember for how long I floated and swam in the lake, but the sun was well in the west when I climbed onto the boulder on the bank and removed my sodden clothing. The water had been clean, and now so was I.

I lay my clothes on the rock, and then myself, feeling the sun soak into my skin. I wonder who I am. I can remember this morning, vaguely, feeling a harsh sun on myself and then running and jumping into the lake-- but before that? I can not remember, and I do not want to try. Whatever is in my past now rests at the bottom of the lake, and I am content to let it do so.

The rock is warm and comfortable, and I lie contentedly in the sun. I love the sun-- it is so warm, so bright, and so stable-- I shut my eyes, and feel the heat on my eyelids. Everything is light, and warm, and soft.

No, it's dark, and cold, and it hurts. I sit up. The sun has gone down-- how long have I been asleep? I can not see a thing, and I sit naked on the cold, hard rock, but I am perfectly content. Then the moon comes up, huge and white, reflecting on the beautiful lake. I look around; absorbing the perfection of the forest in the pale moonlight, and a tiny lapping noise distinguishes itself from the sounds of the night forest. Tiny ripples texture the pure silver water, and I look to the far side of the lake-- it is there I see ten silvery and perfect forms, with their heads bent down to the water. I have risen to my feet by now, and as I watch, all of them slowly and at once raise their heads and look at me.

I stand, pale and naked in the moonlight on the boulder at the top of the lake, as each turns and vanishes into the forest, until one is left-- trembling slightly, her coat shimmering in the moonlight as she moves, she approaches me, her fawn-soft eyes flickering with fear and excitement. I feel the same, suddenly, a sudden apprehension mixed with joy, and I am afraid of this terrible, beautiful creature. I am afraid of her, just as she is afraid of me, a pale, soft� what am I? I am nothing, now-- but as she nears I feel slow realization looming. She is two yards away now� now one� and the graceful motion of her four legs stops. She looks at me, and I look at her. Slowly, I reach out my hand-- longing, waiting, beckoning. She takes a few steps forward, and puts her head down. I feel warm softness, and a gentle rush of air, as she bows her head at my feet� and I know what I am.

I am the heart of the forest.