The Philosophical Difference Between Running and Walking

A’m runnin towards the shop but A dunno wit A’m gonnae dae when A git there. A’m flyin past aw the eld monuments ae home n travellin back through space n time, losin ma current self n findin ma lost self again. A’m runnin through the woods behind ma street where we used tae sook buckets wae the boys, tinfoil n spreaded dope when we wur wee guys, sockets n grass when we wur older. Yi kin still see glass bottles lyin aboot wae the arse smashed aff them n plastic two litres wae the heed chopped aff them like Mary Queen ae Scots. We used tae jump doon tae the burn n fill them wae the stinkin water n try n no drop the bucket n splash yir face when yi took it n coughed up. They ended up brown, full ae thick oils. The polis used tae appear doon the woods, two black uniforms wae wee blue radio squares n we wid aw split intae the trees n try tae make it intae the big woods, where the Mansion is. They go on fur miles, away tae the Golfy n the Toi’s scheme. If yi made it in there, yi wur sound. In these wee woods the polis wid pounce oot on yi n frogmarch yi straight doon tae yir maw’s door n take yir bit-fur-a-joint aff yi or pour yir wine oot.

It breaks ma heart that the Mansion is almost gone noo. Our ain fuckin castle, destroyed fur a block ae flats, but they couldnae demolish it in yir dreams, cos sometimes A wid dream ae the place, back tae its former glory n full ae ma eld pals wae nae polis n nae rain tae hide fae. Then A wid wake up n forget that it’s gone n that it’s years later.

A’m emergin fae the woods n havin the traditional wee look over the wall, tae see if the coast is clear. Nae polis aboot. A’m back on the street n swaggerin doon towards the church. Many a night we sat there, oot our nuts on eckies n fuckin freezin. Yir trackies tucked intae yir socks n yir jumper tucked intae yir trackies, everywan huddled the-gither tae keep warm. If yi wur gittin chased through the cemetery, yi always ended up there, in the eld section where the mad graves wae skulls n crossbones ir. The statue ae the Grey Lady still keeps hur silent vigil in the main bit. Even though yi knew the eld urban legend wis fuckin bollocks, yi still wouldnae look hur in the eye after half seven if yi wur yirsel, nae chance.

A know A few folk in there anaw: Wee Toffey n Toni, Alice n Stevie Broon, the-gither again n forever. A heard even eld Billy the Kid finally kicked the bucket n is somewhere in there anaw. The blue Campsie hills over the back keep watch over them aw n the expanse ae floodplain that stretches as far as Lennoxtown. Those strong, silent, giant guardians that balance yir soul tae look at, as yi stand n pay yir respects tae the dead. Soon as it gits dark, the lights ae Cumbernauld light up like Times Square at Christmas, fuckin Hollywood. When yi drive the backroad tae Brackenhirst, the lights ae the city ir right in front ae yi, beyond miles ae fields n the eld railway bridge that the wind sweeps roon on summer evenings.