huddle formation


Run for your life.

– the walk back from the station is the same walk every day, the same dull dry combination of dogshit, tarmac and fumes. grey, all of it, grey, grey like the sky above and the ground below and the soul inside. step upon step, each and every one rehearsed each and every day.

bus shelter. fractured glass, veiled youth. scrawl of pen. the wind blows right through. waiting. waiting for the bus that never comes. a scrap of paper struggles fitfully along the gutter. passers-by passing by. don’t catch their eyes. but now a woman, too striking to ignore.

and she smiles. her mask cracks. her eyes light up.

and a young, fair-haired man is running down the street, white shirt untucking from his pressed black trousers, tie slipping from his neck. not just running: sprinting, legs pinwheeling. and another, this one dark haired. and another woman, and another and another and now it is a crowd; a mass of commuters, a train of suited and skirted sprinters, a flock of running, shouting humanity.

but there is no fear, no anger; no mob, no riot. instead, joy, delight. a woman pulls out the pins that restrain her long black hair and throws them to the floor. two bare-chested men sing passionately. birds burst from the trees. grass blooms. and you with it. with them.

and the crowd keeps moving: remembering how it is to run, to laugh, to shout for no reason but for the running, laughing, shouting. And before you know quite why or how, you too are running, and laughing and shouting.

great times are ahead, great times. and you will do great things

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