Movement. That's what I loved. That's where my passion always was. The feeling of breathlessness, weightlessness, as I pushed myself further and further to my goal. My mind, my body, my everything was on autopilot. Every gap, every wall, every blockade, every enemy was just another challenge. A game I always win.
The goal didn't matter. At least, not now it didn't. I knew I ran for a reason. For a purpose. When I'm actually out there, though? My mind moves as free as my body. Even in my deepest, darkest moments, running...it doesn't make me feel better, but it makes me forget. Nothing around me matters except for point A, point B, and anything that'll help me get to point B faster.
When I see a bullet whiz by out of the corner of my eye even before the crack of the gun hits my ear, I know things just got a little more dangerous, but also a little more exciting. I might sound crazy for saying that, but hey, I jump off buildings for a living. "sane" isn't even something I would use to describe myself.
Some people may call running away cowardly, too, but they're about as interested in a fair fight as I am. All the weapons are are an attempt to stop me. They're just another set of obstacles for me. To keep going is the biggest "fuck you." I can give.
In the end, this may be for a noble cause, one that I believe in, but I know deep down that, before anyone else, I run for me.