Running, Hiding, and Not Apologizing for It

I don’t run to survive.
I run because I can.

Everyone keeps asking what I’m running from —
as if life is some noble battlefield and I’m expected to stay, fight, obey, bleed.
No thanks.
I’ve seen what “staying” looks like.
It’s the same grey hallway over and over, people lining up to carry burdens they didn’t choose, smiling just wide enough not to crack.

So I run.

I hide.

Not out of fear — but out of boredom.

They say hiding is weakness. Cowardice.
But I’ve found more truth in shadows than I ever did in the spotlight.
You ever try whispering to yourself in a crowded room?
Exactly.
You have to disappear to really hear anything.

Sometimes I duck behind silence just to watch the noise collapse.
Sometimes I vanish mid-conversation because I’m tired of answering questions I didn’t ask.
Sometimes I pretend to be someone else, just for the thrill of knowing I don’t owe anyone consistency.

People want you to be solid, predictable, available.
They want you boxed, labeled, archived.
But I’m fluid, erratic, deliberately unfinished.

Running isn’t the problem.
The problem is this world keeps building walls where I build exits.

So yeah, I run.
I hide.
And no, I don’t always leave a note.

But maybe — just maybe — I’m not escaping.
Maybe I’m reclaiming the right to move without permission.