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It’s back. I hate it, I never did want it coming back, but these things never do come around silently—they come charging like yaks on a stampede and pushes out the best of you.

Mine came at around 4pm due to a wrong comment. Now I found out the reason why I’m getting all my denials in a row. But hell, I wasn’t warned. No uh, I wasn’t warned. A surge of force came rushing from the door, scooping me brusquely, hitting me so hard on the windows that it crashed into minute pieces. It held me for a split second in the air while I was alternating on helplessly looking at the 21st floor I left and the 21 other floors I’m gonna pass by swiftly when I start falling on air. But it gave me no mercy. It started to charge down, pushing me downwards in such an undeniable force, the air around it almost too red from a combination of anger, disappointment and extreme hatred. I tried grabbing into something but suspension into air is the most tangible intangible thing.

And there I was. Back to the middle of everything idle and worthless. I was watching from the window of the 21st floor how that force rammed into my other self who tried to plow through everything kicking and screaming. When I finally saw her hit the pavement and the force simultaneously combusting, she was just what I expected her to look like: no blood, no broken bones, but lifeless.

Lifeless.

And that choked me. The technology around me, the faux cool air rendered by the conditioning, the blank faces around me minding their own mundane lives–all of them choking the diminutive sanity I have left. They were all functioning detachedly with everyone just as I was a while ago, but now, it’s the detachment that’s haunting me. Because I couldn’t detach with insanity. With boiling hatred.

I had to run. But I couldn’t. Because there’s a term called responsibility. Because there’s a term called expectations. Because they sometimes co-exist, and I was just trying to get hold of them both.

And I’d once again hear her words: I’m running out of excuses to explain you.

She tries to touch me. She knows I’m upset, in fact, more than that. I was teary eyed. She asks, are you okay? I wanted to scream: no. No. No.

NO. I. AM. NOT. FUCKING. OKAY. I wanted to scream what I wanted to tell her, all the frustrations I’m cultivating, how hard I’m making things seem, how hard she’s making things seem. How I’m tired of all these and I can’t do anything because once she cries, I would again be rendered ineffectual.

I want to run. Again. Away from everything else.

Once I was told I’m very fond of running. That I am in denial of things, and I run to avoid everything else. I run when I can’t take things. I run when I can’t face them.

Once I was told I have changed. I now face things.

But I’m am sick. Of everything else. Of things that choke me.

No, running ain’t for just for the healthy.