It used to be that whenever I felt depressed or pressured, I'd be visited by a mental image of myself puffing on a ciggarette, cheeks hollowed as I inhaled the nicotine-saturated fumes, eyes haloed by dark circles and fingers tar-stained yellow. Lately it's a different image. I'm running along a quiet street, the air is chilled and a lone car passes by. The trees that line the street are tall and swaying leafless, almost ready for winter. Sometimes I'd be crying, other times my eyes are shut against whatever it was that's depressing me.
'Lin, those drawings need to be ready by noon.'
Run.
The computer threatens to shut down for the tenth time.
Run.
Dead-logged on the highway during rush hour.
Run.
'Everybody needs to be with somebody, you know...'
Run run run run run run....
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