running-away

The smell of cigarette smoke in the air in a tavern that changes names often,a bar cursed because of a girl who died of a drug overdose in the basement, we put a few coins in the jukebox;chose __ngel Band_ by Johnny Cash and sat down at the bar,ordered a soda, you wanted a whiskey on the rocks.We saw the coal miner who moved here from West Virginiaknocking back liquor like I drink sweet tea.No one asked why he was so solemn today.It was warm. It was relatively quiet.To anyone else, this place could feel sinister.But to us, it was freedom. It was a hiding place.No one was ever here long enough to know us.And we liked it that way.

But that was all bravado. Already - how had it come about so quickly - desire had begotten need. A few whispered words (perhaps he didn't mean them) and I was ready to follow. It was worse to think of staying behind, to grind one day upon another. Nothing to hold me here. None to regret my leaving, save Az.

Every time the song looped, all I heard was the part about the lies - and how they weigh you down. Tonight, as I drive toward Detroit in my Jeep, I know what those words really mean. It's not just the lies they're referring to. It's life. You can't run to another town, another place, another state. Whatever it is you're running from - it goes with you. It stays with you until you find out how to confront it.

How long since he'd been back home? Ten years? Fifteen? He'd stopped keeping track around the time he'd finally stopped looking over his shoulder. At the time, leaving had seemed too good to be true. He'd spent months feeling like he was half a step ahead of some nameless specter; like if he let his guard down, even for a second, whatever it was would drag him right back where he'd come from.

Going away won't change anything if you're running from yourself.

Running, you should know, is a kind of stillness.

You can run away from yourself so often, and so much, just because the broken pieces of you cut your feet too deeply if you stay around for too long. But then what if someone were to come along and pick up those pieces for you? Then you wouldn't have to run away from yourself anymore. You could stop running. If someone sees you as something worth staying with_ maybe you'll stay with yourself, too.

Sadness at that age had the pleasing texture of imprisonment: you reared and sulked against the bonds of parents and school and age, things that kept you from the certain happiness that awaited. When I was a sophomore in college, I had a boyfriend who spoke breathlessly of running away to Mexico - it didn't occur to me that we could no longer run away from home.

Laine slowly rolled out of bed. The queen size was one of the few new things in the house. But now, even the new bed felt tainted. It was an inner-spring monument to lies, a petri dish of mendacity she had shared with her faithless husband, and shared now with creeping dreams that flew from the light but left harsh scratches and diseased black feathers. Laine promised herself that, as soon as, she could, she would rid herself of this house, this bed, her clothes, her jewelry - everything but the flesh she lived in. She would scrub herself clean and flee to start a new life whose first and only commandment would be: Never let thyself be lied to again.

After all, it's one thing to run away when someone's chasing you. It's entirely another to be running all alone.

I'm homeless. I've taken to the belief that home is not where we lay our heads comfortably some nights, or where we entertain visiting friends. It's not where love is unconditional. When I look up and realize I haven't run away in a long time, I'll know I'm home.

You scared the crap out of me,_ I shove his bare chest with a growl. __asthat you at the front door?___a think?_ He fires back with a raise of his eyebrows, taking hold of my armagain, as he practically drags me back toward the front entry.__id it occur to you to say something?_ I shoot back with a scowl. __ thoughtyou were some kind of psychopath._ My frown deepens, as I consider whether he might in fact be a psychopath.

God isn't a place of fresh starts. He isn't a hideout. He is not a destination. He is not a clean break. He is not a cop out for indecision. He is not a straight line. He is a circle. He will take you back to whatever you ran from if he needs you to heal your scars and others. He is a God of justice and compassion. The greatest growth a soul can experience doesn't come from doing service to strangers that have no impact on your life. It comes from doing service to people that have hurt you or you have hurt them. To truly devote yourself to God is to travel down roads that are hard to revisit. However, he will keep taking you there, until you have healed yourself or others.

If you build the guts to do something, anything, then you better save enough to face the consequences.

I think if we stop running towards broken arms, we__ all be just fine.

He__ close enough now that I can hear his footfall on the pavement, and I knowmy chances of outrunning him are slim. I__ practically in a full sprint, and my pounding heart is begging me to take it down a notch. I try to will my feet to keep pace with its beat; but I think it__ humanly impossible to run that fast. And then it dawns on me that my footsteps are the only ones I hear. Somewhere along the way, Tristan__ must have come to a stop. And I can__ quite explain why I__ running this fast in the first place. I slow to a jog, intending to just pick up with my original pace; but I can__ seem to suck in breaths fast enough to propel my feet any further. My molten shoes stutter to a stop, as my hands come to rest on my knees. I__ stillwheezily sucking in breath after breath of thick, humid air, when I warily turn to look over my shoulder.Tristan__ standing about fifty feet back, hands on his hips and a comp

As one of the little streams starts snaking my way, inching closer to the toe of my shoe, I hop over the spreading puddle and out of its reach. I don__ look back to see if it__ going to follow me. I__ already three blocks away and still gaining speed

He__ close enough now that I can hear his footfall on the pavement, and I knowmy chances of outrunning him are slim. I__ practically in a full sprint, and mypounding heart is begging me to take it down a notch. I try to will my feet to keep pace with its beat; but I think it__ humanly impossible to run that fast. And then it dawns on me that my footsteps are the only ones I hear. Somewhere along the way, Tristan__ must have come to a stop. And I can__ quite explain why I__ running this fast in the first place. I slow to a jog, intending to just pick up with my original pace; but I can__ seem to suck in breaths fast enough to propel my feet any further. My molten shoes stutter to a stop, as my hands come to rest on my knees. I__ still wheezily sucking in breath after breath of thick, humid air, when I warily turn tolook over my shoulder.Tristan__ standing about fifty feet back, hands on his hips and a comp