Running with Ghosts

Dark, sunwarmed cobblestone and pavement; Cunningham's masterpiece is less of a proving ground than a breeding ground on many of my barefoot traipses during lunch hour. My mind is the equivalent of any open, gaping mouth; ideas rush in.

It's a freight train; quick flashes coupled with images coupled with ephemeral what ifs joined to compulsive dialogue, and it's fun to ride.

Some days, like today though, the freight train rumbles on within, while without guests hit the welcome mat and join me for a few kilometeres.

Berkeley today, pointing down to the pebble ensconced rough bits coming up, then back up to my head.

The whole run, really, is in my head.

Physical distance from the office to Berkeley's tag-on point - in my head. Just a concept. Rising pulse and engaged muscles - just sensations. Pain in the feet - just triggers in the head.

And who is aware of those concepts / sensations / brain bits?

The non-local awareness from which even Berkeley arises.

namaste