She is running. She runs, escaping her past. The past of the weariness, the anger, the frustration and the passionate rage. She needs to escape her past.
She is running. She runs, escaping her present. The present of the fear, the horror, the shame and the feverish confusion. She needs to escape her present.
She is running. She runs, escaping her future. The future of the unknown, it being unknown making it all the worse. Guilt, maybe, guilty obsession, is the future. She tries to escape her future.
But is she escaping life or death? Escape is death, in every direction. Sometimes life is braver than death. Living is braver than dying.
Will she be pursued by Conscience if she follows her heart? Only if she chooses to be pursued.
For she will never meet monsters, feel phobias or allow herself to dread them unless she raises temples to the monsters and the phobias in her heart. Belief is truth.
The past is the past, in the past, as the past. She is the present and the present contours the future.
She is tired of running. She halts and cries out in anguish.
And she is heard and she is saved and she need never run again.