It feels like weeks ago that fatigue made place for normalcy. My movements are robotic. Stopping them feels wrong, uneasy, painful almost. Had I really not been running since the beginning of time? How did I ever bear standing still? My heart would likely stop beating if I did so now.
Did they halt the chase? No soul to be heard from, no ice cold feeling in my neck. Did I lose my prey? Not a target in sight, no end to my race. Is this the fate of the cursed, to run for eternity? Is this my personal hell?
There must be something. A fuel to my flames, an end to my means. I refuse to believe I have forgotten what I find important, but maybe that is denial. The essence of it escapes me, my mind clouded over by the monotonous drumming of my pace.
Like I was made for this.