As I rushed outside, it was already ten o’clock. Cold clean air filled my lungs. I took the tram, mostly empty, and got off in the middle of the bridge. I could hear the cars far off in the city. On the island[1] I could hear only the trees and the river.

The track was lit and there was no one on it. On both sides the river ran dark and reflected the lights from buildings on the banks. A little wind moved the yellow leaves. Beyond the track it was black. I did not put the music on. I needed my ears.[2]

I ran badly, listening. When my breathing eased and the rhythm came, I put the music on.

The next morning I sat in the cafe when I should have been at work and wrote until the matcha went cold. I wrote about being where you are not supposed to be. I had always done that. I went to the wrong places on purpose, hoping to turn around fast enough to catch the world before it finished loading. That night I waited for the world to glitch. It did not. I ran, and the running went on. I was where I was supposed to be.[3]

  1. Margin Island in Budapest. ↩︎

  2. In other words, I was deeply scared. ↩︎

  3. This scene’s goal was to convey the feeling of finding yourself, or your place, in the environment, where you would feel do not belong, or, should not be at. It is about this feeling of the deep flow, where you get consumed by the process, that you stop noticing everything else, and start feeling like you are exactly where you need to be. ↩︎