There's something about a cold night and a silence only broken by your own breathing and the pad of your tennis shoes on cold asphalt. Harsh winter air flooding your lungs, your skin and marrow numbing to the cold around you, but you keep running. Run because it hurts, and because you can. Run to get away, because while you're running, things have a funny way of melting from your mind, as if each cold breath heats instead of freezes. Slowly you lose the feeling in your face, hands, arms, and legs, the cold sinking into you as if you were a vaccuum. Eventually you don't feel the cold; it's there, undoubtedly, but it becomes unimportant because you have beaten the cold. Somehow, this late night winter air and over-exertion make everything disappear. With each step, you slowly start to free yourself, until at long last you can breathe.
It was a stupid mistake, I know, but somehow I felt justified because you had been stupid, too. I was mad at you at first, right before I felt like an insane hypocrite. In a lot of ways we're both injuring ourselves, aren't we? You with your stitches and me with my blistered feet. We're both looking for ways to cover up the latest broken piece, trying to hide it instead of attempting to glue it back into place, because we'd undoubtedly cut ourselves on the edges.