The morning sky yawns, a slate-grey blanket stretching over the slate grey sprawl, I'm lacing up my trainers, ready to hit the ground. There's an urgency, a rhythm that beats inside like a drum. I step outside and feel the air, heavy with the remnants of last night, I’m not just running - I’m breaking free. They want me to say sorry, they want me to stand still.

The park lay ahead, patch of green rebellion encircled by brick and tarmac. I hit the path, the sound of shoes crunching against the gravel matching my pulse. My jaw loosens. My existence is colliding with nature, the world around me becomes a blur.

Tree branches claw the sky, a whisper of wind urging me on, the noise and distraction of the outside fall away. Each stride feels like defiance at everything that tries to hold me back. This is not a jog; this is visceral, sweat and drive, every exhale a war cry.

Faces flash by, eyes down, humanity lost in someone else's thoughts and phones, I wonder what burden weighs them down, what are they running from? There is truth buried within muscle and sinew, none in your likes and favs. I have already forgotten you.

Lungs burn, embrace the discomfort. A reminder that I’m alive, here, fighting against the mundane. I am not a body, I am a force. Unyielding. The finish line...not my goal. It’s the journey. The struggle. The act of moving forward - always forward.

Gulping air. This is my rage against the silence. Stop. I come to a halt, chest heaving, the park behind me now just an evaporating canvas for the brushstrokes of effort made, the weight of the world momentarily lifted. In this recovering breath, I remember: I am alive, and I won’t apologise.