In running, is it what you leave or where you’re heading? Perhaps the simple act of moving, being in motion, is enough. I like feeling the crisp air on my skin and the blanket of silence surrounding me. In motion, I embrace the increasing distance as houses blur and streets fade away. There is safety in separation. I wake up longing for that freedom; I think of it, on repeat, at night.

The walls begin to constrict again and my feet and mind want to defy the familiar box. My spirit has had enough; my heart is bobbing, bristling in my chest. Where do you run to when there’s nowhere to run? Movement alone won’t carry me—not for long.

There is safety in separation, but not enough peace. I need so much more than the same four walls—always the same four walls. The bare box you offer to pack myself away in. In the deafening hours of my isolation, when every inch of me won’t settle and be still, the certainty rings on and on like an alarm cajoling me out of bed.

I can’t sleep for its ringing. I can’t just run away; I need to run towards something, everything.