Here is a scene that happens in movies: An actor goes for a run, and they run like they’re fleeing, breathless, the pound of feet on pavement an existential rattle. They’re not wearing headphones; nevertheless, you hear a song, an echo of their emotions. The actor is sweating, fists pumping up and down in stride, their hair tendrils stick to their temples like syrup. As the music crescendos so does their speed. They’re running faster and faster, full tilt until they bend over, buckling at the knees. Usually there's something scenic behind them, like a river or the yolk of a sunset.
Sometimes, when I run, I pretend that this actor in a movie is me. I’m Rocky, trailed by cheering children. I’m Clarice, crunching orange leaves at Quantico. The music piped through my earbuds reminds me I'm flying, a cinematic sprint. In the back of my mind, I know I bear little resemblance to this mosaic of movie scene runners. That’s okay. Even adults need to play pretend.
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