I run to forget.
I run to escape.
I run to process the anxiety.
I run for the off-chance I'll see an elf perched in a tree.
I run to combat the depression, a shot of endorphins to overwhelm the dark.
I run for the solace, away from the manufactured stimuli and artifice and societal pressure.
I run to listen to the footsteps on the earth, auditory proof that I am still here.
I run to imagine adventuring with hobbits and trolls and magical sprites.
I run for the physical feedback—the stab of my hip, the throb of my back—to remind me that I am human.
I run to be humbled by the magnificence of the pale blue dot, the insignificance of my self, an organism of random happenstance.
I run to immerse myself in beauty, in awe.
I run to live.