I’ve been chasing happiness for as long as I can remember. Not joy exactly, joy has a softness to it, a quiet way of sitting beside you even in chaos. Happiness, though… happiness is fast. Slippery. It teases me from across the room, just long enough for me to think this time I’ve got it.
But every time I reach out, it disappears around another corner.
I’ve built whole seasons around catching it. I’ve tried routines, love, work, escape, control. Each one promised that if I could just do it right, happiness would finally slow down long enough for me to hold it. But somehow, it always slips through my fingers, leaving only the echo of its laughter and the ache in my chest from running too hard, too long.
Still, I keep running.
Because even when it hides behind dark corners, I feel its pull. That small, stubborn belief that maybe the next turn is the one where it stops running, too. Maybe that’s what keeps us human, the chase itself. The refusal to sit still and settle for numbness. The hope that one day, happiness won’t be something to catch, but something that turns around and meets us halfway.
Until then, I’ll keep moving. Not because I think I can outrun the emptiness, but because somewhere deep down, I still believe the running matters.