2.5 Hours of Silence

Last weekend, I ran for two and a half hours straight. No music, no podcasts, no one beside me, just me, the road, and whatever my mind decided to say.

I used to think that sounds lonely, but it actually never feels that way. It’s something I look forward to all week, those long, quiet hours where I can hear myself think without interruption.

In the first few kilometers, I still hear the city: motorbikes passing, kids playing, a faint hum of morning chatter. But as the run stretches on, everything starts to blur into background noise. My thoughts slow down, like they finally catch up with my steps.

I talk to myself sometimes, about random things. I count stray cats, notice how the light hits the trees, greet other runners who pass by. I laugh at my own small observations. It’s funny how, in that solitude, I never feel alone.

The longer I run, the simpler everything becomes. Eat, breathe, move forward. My world shrinks to the length of the road ahead, and somehow that smallness feels freeing. There’s no space for overthinking, no need to be anywhere else. Just one foot, then the other.

When I finally stop, the silence follows me home. My legs ache, the sun’s already higher, and I feel strangely lighter, not because I’ve left anything behind, but because I’ve spent a few hours just being with myself.

It’s not about escape. It’s about return, to presence, to rhythm, to me.