Monday Music, week 5. (Runaway)

The urge to run, and what happens when you do

There was a time when I listened to this song because I wanted to disappear.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that wanted attention. Just a quiet, worn-down urge to get away from everything that felt heavy, complicated, and unfair. Life wasn’t exactly good back then. Things piled up. One problem bled into the next, and before I knew it, I was carrying more than I knew how to put down.

Runaway became the soundtrack to that feeling.

It wasn’t about literally running. It was about the idea of escape. The thought of leaving everything behind and starting again somewhere new. Somewhere no one knew my past. Somewhere I wasn’t defined by mistakes, pain, or the things I couldn’t change. Just the chance to rebuild. Slowly. Honestly. On my own terms.

And the thing is, I did run.

I moved away. I changed my surroundings. I thought distance might be the answer. And in some ways, it helped. My confidence grew. I found my feet a little more. I learned things about myself I probably wouldn’t have learned if I’d stayed where I was.

But the problems didn’t magically disappear.

They followed me, just in different forms. Maybe the distance wasn’t far enough. Or maybe distance was never the real solution in the first place. What actually changed wasn’t the world around me. It was something inside me. How I handled things. How I saw myself. How much weight I let certain things carry.

That was a hard lesson to learn.

Sometimes the idea of running away feels so appealing because it promises a clean slate. A full reset. But real life doesn’t always work like that, especially when you have responsibilities. When other people rely on you. When walking away isn’t just about you anymore.

When those responsibilities exist, running stops being an option. Or at least, it stops being a simple one.

Maybe one day, when those responsibilities grow up enough, the idea of a reset might appear again. But even then, it wouldn’t be a complete do-over. It wouldn’t be wiping the slate clean. It would be an adjustment. A shift. A personal reset of character rather than circumstances.

Because some responsibilities don’t let you start again.
They need you to keep going.

That’s the part people often miss when they say “running away isn’t the answer.” Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it can’t be. And sometimes the people saying that have no real idea what you’ve had to deal with, or what it’s taken just to stay where you are.

This song sits in that space for me. Between wanting to escape and learning how to endure. Between dreaming of starting over and realising that growth doesn’t always come from leaving everything behind.

Looking back now, I don’t hear Runaway as a plan. I hear it as a feeling. A very human one. The desire to let the past be the past and stop dragging it into the present. To rebuild without abandoning the people and responsibilities that matter.

Sometimes running away isn’t about going somewhere else.
It’s about changing how you carry what you’ve already lived through.

And that’s something a lot of us understand, even if we don’t always say it out loud.

Why this song hits when life feels heavy

Runaway doesn’t dress the feeling up. It doesn’t pretend that wanting to escape is noble or dramatic. It just tells the truth of it. That tired, quiet desperation that builds when life keeps throwing things at you and you don’t feel like you’re ever getting a chance to recover.

Devlin’s verses feel like thoughts you don’t always say out loud. The frustration. The pressure. The sense of being stuck in a cycle you didn’t choose but somehow ended up in anyway. There’s no glamour in it. No pretending everything will work out if you just think positively enough. It acknowledges how suffocating life can feel when the weight keeps stacking up.

That’s why this song landed so hard for me at the time I first found it. It mirrored exactly where my head was at. Not angry enough to explode. Not hopeful enough to feel optimistic. Just worn down. Wanting space. Wanting distance from everything that felt like it was closing in.

Jasmin’s vocals add another layer to that feeling. There’s something soft and almost fragile in them, like a reminder of what’s at stake. The part of you that still wants peace. Still wants something better. Still wants to believe that there’s a version of life that doesn’t feel so heavy all the time.

Together, it feels like an internal conversation. One side wanting to disappear. The other wanting to hold on to something worth staying for.

What I’ve always appreciated about this song is that it doesn’t offer easy answers. It doesn’t tell you that running away will fix everything, and it doesn’t shame you for wanting to escape either. It just sits in that uncomfortable middle ground where a lot of real life actually lives.

When you’re dealing with a lot of shit, music like this matters. Not because it distracts you, but because it validates the feeling. It tells you that you’re not weak for wanting a break. That you’re not broken for dreaming of something different. That wanting to run doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.

Over time, my relationship with this song has changed. I don’t listen to it from the same place I once did. Back then, it felt like a matter of survival. Now it feels more like reflection. A reminder of where my head used to be, and how I learned to keep going even when things felt impossible.

But that doesn’t mean the urge disappeared completely.

If I’m being honest, sometimes I still want to run. The feeling doesn’t own me the way it once did, but it hasn’t vanished either. Some days, the idea of running away to the other side of the world feels incredibly inviting. Starting fresh somewhere no one knows me, leaving everything behind, sounds like freedom in its purest form.

And there are moments, real ones, where that pull gets strong enough that it almost works. Where I can feel myself mentally packing bags, imagining a different life, wondering how far I’d have to go before the noise finally quietened down. It’s not about hating where I am. It’s about wanting distance from the weight that still shows up some days without warning.

This song sits with me in those moments too. Not as a call to escape, but as an acknowledgement of the feeling. The reminder that wanting to run doesn’t mean I’ve failed, or gone backwards. It just means I’m human. It means life still gets heavy sometimes, and my mind still looks for open space when it does.

I don’t act on it. I stay. I carry on. But the thought is there, and Runaway understands that in a way few songs do. It doesn’t judge the urge or glorify it. It simply tells the truth about how tempting escape can feel, even when you know you’re not going anywhere.

And maybe that’s why this song still matters to me now. Not because I want to disappear, but because it reminds me that wanting space doesn’t make me weak. It just means I’ve lived enough to know how heavy life can get, and how appealing the idea of starting again can still be.

This song reminds me of where I was, and quietly shows me how far I’ve come. Not because everything is perfect now, but because I learned that escape doesn’t always mean distance. Sometimes it means understanding yourself better. Sometimes it means changing how you move through the same world instead of trying to outrun it.

That’s why Runaway still belongs in my rotation. It’s not just a song from the past. It’s a reminder of a feeling I survived, and a mindset I no longer live in every day.

What running away really promises

The idea of running away often gets mistaken for weakness, but it’s rarely that simple. Most of the time, it isn’t about wanting to abandon everything. It’s about wanting relief. Wanting space. Wanting a break from being the same version of yourself in the same set of circumstances, day after day.

Running away promises clarity. Or at least the illusion of it.

When you imagine leaving everything behind, the picture is usually clean. New surroundings. New routines. A chance to strip life back to the basics and start rebuilding without interference. It feels like control. Like reclaiming something that’s been slipping away for a long time.

But what that fantasy really offers isn’t escape. It’s permission.

Permission to imagine a life where you’re not constantly reacting. Where you’re not defined by past decisions or old versions of yourself. Where you’re allowed to reset the narrative, even if only in your head.

That’s why the idea is so powerful. It creates mental breathing room.

The problem is that real life rarely grants resets the way imagination does. You don’t arrive somewhere new as a blank slate. You arrive as yourself, shaped by everything you’ve lived through. The patterns come with you. The instincts come with you. The scars come with you.

What changes isn’t who you are. It’s how clearly you can see yourself.

Distance has a way of doing that.

When you step outside your usual environment, you notice things you couldn’t see before. Not just about the world, but about yourself. What you tolerate. What you avoid. What you carry longer than you should. Sometimes, that awareness is the real gift of “running away”. Not the escape, but the perspective.

And once you’ve had that perspective, the idea of a full reset starts to lose its shine.

Because you realise that starting again doesn’t automatically mean starting better. It just means starting differently. Without intention, you risk rebuilding the same problems in a new place, wearing a different mask.

That’s where growth actually begins. Not in leaving, but in deciding what you refuse to repeat.

A real reset isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about no longer letting it run the show. It’s about adjusting your internal compass so you’re not constantly pulled back into old habits, old reactions, old ways of coping that no longer serve you.

This is the part that’s harder to talk about, because it’s quieter and less dramatic than the idea of disappearing. It doesn’t look like rebellion from the outside. But internally, it takes more courage than packing up and leaving ever did.

You start choosing differently. Responding differently. Setting boundaries where you didn’t before. Letting some things go without needing closure or explanation. That kind of change doesn’t announce itself. But it reshapes everything over time.

And when responsibilities exist, when other people rely on you, that internal reset becomes even more important. You don’t get the luxury of wiping the slate clean. You get the responsibility of showing up, even on days when running feels easier.

That doesn’t make the urge disappear. It just changes its meaning.

Running away stops being a plan and becomes a signal. A sign that something needs adjusting. That something is asking for attention. Not through escape, but through honesty.

This song sits in that space for me now. Not as a call to leave everything behind, but as a reminder of how tempting it is to believe that distance alone will fix things. And how much more powerful it is to stay, aware of that temptation, and still choose to build something better where you are.

A reset doesn’t always look like a new life.

Sometimes it looks like a quieter one.
A more intentional one.
One where you stop running in circles and start moving forward, even if it’s slower than you’d like.

That isn’t repetition, that, my friends, is called evolution.

Redefining freedom

At some point, the idea of freedom starts to change.

When you’re younger, freedom looks like absence. No ties. No history. No weight. The ability to move, disappear, and reinvent yourself at will. Freedom feels like distance from everything that’s ever hurt you.

That’s the version of freedom Runaway speaks to at first glance. And it makes sense. When life feels overwhelming, freedom looks like space. Silence. A clean horizon.

But as time passes, that definition starts to crack.

You realise that being free doesn’t necessarily mean being untethered. In fact, some of the heaviest feelings come from not being anchored to anything at all. When nothing is holding you in place, you’re not liberated, you’re drifting. And drifting gets lonely fast.

This is where the song starts to change meaning.

Freedom stops being about escape and starts being about alignment. About whether the life you’re living actually matches who you are now, not who you were when you were hurting the most. It becomes less about running from the past and more about deciding what parts of it you’re willing to carry forward.

Because the truth is, no one really gets a clean break from their past. What we get instead is choice. Choice over how much power we allow it to have. Choice over which lessons stay useful and which ones are allowed to expire.

That’s a quieter kind of freedom, but it’s more sustainable.

It’s choosing not to let old pain dictate new decisions. It’s refusing to live in constant reaction to things that no longer exist. It’s understanding that starting again doesn’t always require movement. Sometimes it just requires permission to stop being who you were forced to become.

That shift takes time. And patience. And a level of honesty that’s uncomfortable.

Because redefining freedom means accepting that some things can’t be undone. Some chapters don’t get erased. They get integrated. They become part of the structure rather than the story itself.

This is where Runaway stops feeling like a desire and starts feeling like a checkpoint. A moment of self-awareness rather than self-escape. It reminds you of what it felt like to want distance so badly, and then quietly asks what you actually need now.

Is it space?
Is it rest?
Is it permission to change without leaving?

Often, it’s not the world that needs replacing. It’s the internal rules we’re still living by.

Rules learned in survival mode. Rules that once kept us safe but now keep us stuck. The song doesn’t answer these questions directly, but it holds them open long enough for you to sit with them honestly.

Freedom, in that sense, becomes internal sovereignty. The ability to choose how you respond, how you rebuild, and how you move forward without pretending the past never happened.

That’s not a dramatic reset. It doesn’t look good on paper. But it’s real.

And it’s earned.

This section of the song, and of life, isn’t about leaving everything behind. It’s about arriving fully where you are, without dragging every old version of yourself into the room.

That’s the kind of freedom that lasts.

The hope of leaving, and the fear of coming back

At its heart, Runaway isn’t really about disappearing forever. It’s about leaving with hope.

The kind of hope that says maybe distance will soften things. Maybe time away will change people. Maybe when you come back, the pressure won’t be as heavy, the expectations won’t feel as brutal, and the world won’t be quite so sharp around the edges. It’s the belief that space might give everyone a chance to breathe and reset.

Devlin’s perspective feels rooted in that tension. Life is tough. The weight of what’s expected of you is relentless. There’s an undercurrent of violence, not just physical, but emotional and environmental. The kind that comes from being constantly on edge, constantly judged, constantly pushed to be something you don’t feel equipped to be.

Running away becomes a pause button.

Not an ending, not a solution, but a break from the noise. A way to step out of the chaos long enough to remember who you are underneath it. There’s relief in that idea. Real relief. The thought of escaping the grind, the pressure, the constant demands, even temporarily, feels like oxygen.

But the song never pretends that escape is simple.

There’s an understanding woven through it that leaving doesn’t guarantee change. That when you return, the world might look exactly the same. The same problems. The same people. The same expectations waiting right where you left them. And if that happens, the disappointment cuts deeper than before.

That’s the risk of hope.

You leave believing things might be different one day. You hold onto the idea that absence could bring perspective, growth, understanding. That maybe time will smooth the rough edges. But expectation and reality rarely line up cleanly. When they don’t, the temptation is to turn around and run again, faster this time, further away.

The song lives in that back-and-forth.

Jasmin’s presence in the track feels like the emotional echo of that hope. There’s longing there. A sense of wanting things to be better, of wanting something to return to. Her voice carries the part of the story that still believes in change, still believes that home could feel safe again if the right things shifted.

Together, their voices feel like two sides of the same thought. One grounded in the harshness of reality, the other holding onto the possibility that it doesn’t have to stay that way forever.

And when escape finally comes, even if it’s temporary, there’s relief in it. Real relief. The quiet kind that settles in when the noise drops and you’re no longer bracing yourself for the next hit. That moment alone can feel worth everything. Just being somewhere else. Being unknown. Being out of reach of the expectations that have been weighing you down.

But relief doesn’t erase memory.

The song understands that too. No matter how far you go, you don’t forget why you left. And if you ever return, you carry both hope and fear with you. Hope that things will be different this time. Fear that they won’t be. Fear that you’ll be forced to face the same pressures all over again.

That’s where the disappointment lives. Not in leaving, but in realising that change doesn’t always happen just because you needed it to.

Runaway doesn’t judge that cycle. It doesn’t mock the hope or shame the escape. It treats both as natural responses to a world that can be brutal and unforgiving. It acknowledges that sometimes leaving is the only way to survive, even if it doesn’t fix everything.

And that’s what makes the song honest.

It doesn’t sell the fantasy of a perfect return. It doesn’t promise that distance will heal all wounds. It simply tells the truth about the emotional gamble of escape. The relief of getting out. The hope of coming back to something better. The disappointment when reality hasn’t moved as much as you did.

Devlin and Jasmin aren’t offering answers here. They’re capturing a feeling many people live with quietly. The idea that sometimes you need to leave just to stay sane. And sometimes, when you do, you realise that the world you’re hoping will change might not be ready yet.

That doesn’t make leaving pointless. It makes it human.

Because even when things don’t change the way we hope, the act of leaving can still change us. It can give us perspective. Strength. A clearer understanding of what we’re willing to accept and what we’re not.

Runaway sits in that truth. Full of hope, disappointment, relief, and realism, all at once. It doesn’t romanticise escape, but it doesn’t deny its necessity either.

Sometimes you run because staying hurts too much.
Sometimes you hope to return.
And sometimes you realise that if nothing has changed, you’ll need to protect yourself again.

The song doesn’t tell you which choice is right.

It just reminds you that wanting out doesn’t make you weak. It means you’re paying attention.

And sometimes, that awareness is the first step toward something better, wherever that ends up being.

Reader choices

Before we get into your song choices, I want to say this.

Today’s blog came together after a long, busy weekend, and I’ll be honest, it’s been written in real time rather than polished in quiet. If parts feel a little raw, a little repetitive, or slightly messy in places, that’s why. This one wasn’t overthought. It was written as it came, and sometimes that’s the most honest way to do it.

That said, the response this week has been incredible.

The songs you’ve sent in come from all over the place, different genres, different moods, different moments in people’s lives. And just like the main track this week, every one of them carries meaning. These aren’t random picks. They’re songs people have lived with, leaned on, or found themselves in.

So take your time with what follows. This part of Monday Music isn’t about critique or ranking. It’s about listening. About seeing where other people are at, and maybe finding something that speaks to you too.

Thank you for sharing what you did. It genuinely means a lot.

This was hard work this week, time limited to high hell but so worth it… some new music and new releases (and some brand new releases next week)

all song will be added to the spotify playlist, please enjoy and find some new stuff and new artists and just pure amazing songs. Monday Music Spotify Playlist

Also please like and share and also follow me, alot of hard work goes into these blogs and I would love to feel appreciated haha. (Not begging but secretly I am)

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