I ask for salvation, and my own body returns it to me

In the form of concrete and a persistent sweat trail down my back and the repeated thought of

“Oh god I’m going to die this is actually hell I don’t think I can-”

And then I hit my stride.

It is not graceful, a slow shuffle, wobbling ankles, a slouched back

The disadvantages of a toffee stretched body with muscles just as soft.

I am at all times aware of the distance from the ground, of every muscle in my body straining, of the fact I could at any moment coming crashing down onto pavement.

I ask for salvation, for a sign that I am still alive beneath the fog I had surrounded myself with.

It was as if I was searching for something greater in windblown cheeks and aching legs, coaxing out some new girl I only half recognized, whipcord lean, feral in the light of the setting sun.

Have I left myself behind, or remolded myself?

Every mile my crucible. I am no phoenix, but as I push myself over the last hill, and the light on the bay shrouds me, it is as if for a brief moment I am remade by fire.