The Spring of 90

2002 – The Present. It is raining heavily. The sky appears to have thrown across itself a shawl made of deep grey wool. I am running on my toes towards the river bank with my blue rubber sandal tucked in the curl of my fingers and a diary held against my chest. Each running step landing on the rain soaked earth kicks up innumerable droplets of mud that splatters onto the rolled up trouser of mine, creating an untidy mosaic. My body has given...