The Doctor wasn't running away from things.

No, things can be touched, can be felt.

He was running towards things because, in his fading world, they were all that he could feel.

That were real.

No, he was running away from ideas.

Because an idea can't be touched.

It can't be felt.

He was running away from the idea of doubt.

The idea of self-hatred.

The idea that he could never be good enough.

They had been planted in his soul so long ago.

And he was running towards things.

To affirm that he was real.

To affirm that he wasn't worthless.

Because he had been running away for so long.

It started feeling like all he was was an idea.

A mass of confused feelings that never would be untangled.

And when he ran towards things he got a glimpse of life's joy.

And started feeling a little more real.

A little less raw.

And a little more light crept into his heart.