I have to be somewhere. I have a train to catch. It’s leaving soon. Very soon. I have to run.
My brain tells my legs. But I can’t make them work. Slowly, slowly, I move one leg and then the other. They are like sacks of sand, heavy, awkward, dragging. My brain says hurry, hurry, you’re going to miss it. Run. Faster. My legs don’t seem to be able to hear. Every step is an enormous effort, slow and ponderous. I move my arms too, right arm left leg, left arm right leg. But I am like a slow motion cartoon character, going nowhere, running on the spot.
The atmosphere is thick, dense, unyielding. I push my body against it, resistance meeting my every effort. The whole world is moving slowly, stickily, like treacle pouring from a tin.
Time is running out. The train is going to leave soon. Very soon. I have to hurry up. I can’t miss it. My breathing quickens as anxiety pricks my skin like a thousand needles. I can’t miss it. What will happen to me? How will I get there?
I’m never going to make it. I can’t make my legs work. Despite willing with all my might, my body won’t move any faster. Right arm left leg, left arm right leg, inching forwards, slowly, slowly, slowly. Hardly moving at all.
The train is still far away, I can see it in the distance. I know I’m not going to make it. I’m never going to get there. I am filled with dread as I realise I have failed. The train is going to go without me.
I wake up with a start.
This post was written for the Sleep is for the Weak writing workshop. This week’s one word prompt is “Running”.