I love running. I am able to put my masochistic tendencies to good use. It is here that I can push my body to its absolute limit. I love the feeling of my heart pounding in my chest and the fluttering of my lungs with every step. It feels like a war zone, but the chaos is controlled, it exists inside of me, I have complete power over it. The feeling of going further, faster, another mile, another hill. I love the feeling of my entire body aching and every capillary and vein and artery screaming at me to slow down, to stop, but somewhere else, deeper, past all of the muscles and tendons and ligaments and bones, there’s a certain urgency to continue, to speed up, to push even harder. And when I catch the brilliance of the setting sun’s rays in my eyes I feel like I am on fire, burning up, ablaze. Running outside in the evening is to me one of the most beautiful things a person can do.
I think of how we got here. We weren’t even old enough to be in that bar but one minute we’re football spectators behind glass and thousands of miles away and the next we’re doing tequila shots and eating tequila worms. Or rather you did. You’re not even Scottish and neither am I but we celebrate the goals as if we were. Equaliser and tumblers aim for the roof tops. I didn’t make it to school the next morning: too busy walking from town to Broughty Ferry because you say didn’t go to the gym that day. Already there are sacrifices and lies. Too polite to tell the truth, too polite to say no.
More than a year later it’s gay bars and tipping barmaids and people watching. Observing others observe. We’re drinking Heineken, getting into the spirit. You choose this bar and I feel uncomfortable. I’m out numbered. In fact, I’m the only girl here and I feel awkward. I don’t even like this Heineken. Politeness, again. Passive aggressiveness and tension.
Now I don’t even know why we thought it would be a good idea to get the flight which was so early it’s still dark. We’re still sleepy and there is no life outside it seems. Everyone else has common sense. We’re alone and it feels nice.
Semi spontaneity and being intensely carefree makes us two a bad match. Careful planning but nothing going to plan because we’re too busy having fun. Too busy watching cats on YouTube and spoof film clips which you find funny and I find boring but being too passive causes this compromise. I comment on how different we are (us two) at different times of the day, you say we are ambiverts and I don’t understand. One or the other, top or bottom, black or white but no, there are so many different shades of grey and we can’t define ourselves by one moment. But everybody judges each other by one moments: they are first impressions and opinions, or rather voicing opinions and them being unpopular or not voicing opinions and observing instead. Everyone is observing. Everyone observes everyone observing. We laugh. I think.
Three of us sitting in our living room on the thirty-first of December, watching London through television screens and listening for Big Ben’s chimes to signal the beginning of 2012. All is calm, here, and a little awkward too. We’re siblings and a second later than before we feel it is necessary to hold each other and pat each other on the back, do the well wishing and be impressed – again – at the array of colourful explosions. They are impressive, though. We silently decide not to cross our hands and sing Burn’s Auld Lang Syne and not long after do we decide to sleep. The third of us has been sleeping all night in his bed, occasionally flinching at the sound of cheap anti-climatic fireworks that one neighbour thinks is a good idea to buy.