I am a wolf now.
I spent 200 years in the womb of despair and clawed my way out of that sour belly one prick at a time.
I am free, though chains still bind me. They are rusted and weakened and soon will crumble from my ankles.
The air smells sweet and clean and my sight is focused and piercing. I can hear whispers a mile away in my heart, clear as a summers day.
A lone wolf contented in her solitude. Free to wander woods and follow the wind. To howl at the moon to her hearts content, the soloist always leading her own choir.
Free to meditate and mingle on her own terms. To breathe in the breadth of life instead of sucking on a cheroot of death.
Not contented to follow the pack I live the life of a cat in the hide of the dog. Not to hide away in the shadows from fear, but in stealth observation, collecting stories and selecting perfect prey.
It is good to be wild. We were not born to be captives, eating kibbles from plastic cups. We are meant to lap the blood of our mother straight off her bones.
I am the bad wolf. I create myself.
And for that I am despised and feared. I reflect the wild inside the trained monkey and he trembles at my fearsome howls. He hears hunger, wanting and sadness in my song, but his ears are out of tune. It is a joyous song I sing, even when the heart is heavy. For even the saddest songs are songs of joy.
Joy because we can open our throats and sing.
Joy because mother hears our song and she moves with our rhythm.
Joy, because our song cannot be silenced.
Joy for the sake of joy.
Do not tremble when you see me. I am not a depraved and mangy mongrel with an eye to your jugular. I am a wistful wanderer rambling on a feral foray.
