unrealistic dreams

Dream 6

The morning was warm;
It was the type of morning air to stick to your skin.

My feet trudged,
Then trudged faster and faster.

I ran.
I was running.

My lungs were heavy and sore,
And I kept running,
My feet denying every step.

My legs were aching and exhausted,
And gravity pushed my body down.

My chest hit the concrete,
And my cheek scraped against it.

I get up and my feet are unwilling
To move,
So I stand, waiting for nothing
To strike me dead.

What am I running from?
What are all of us running from?
Fears? Demons? Happiness?

Something-not someone-aligns it's body with mine,
Then everything turns black.

They say you can't remember pain,
And frankly, they're correct.