It’s like this. When one writes, one touches the interior of the person. Not the outer self with its burnished reflection in the mirror of society, but the lone wolf that must bay at the moon. The wolf that also prowls outside the social door, knowing that the mere facades can never feed it.
I was exiled from the social world long ago, just as Adam and Eve were expelled from the garden for their own good. So some of us must go forth searching the earth for inner reconciliation. “Turn in your Tupperware. It’s time to go wild,” as they might say in the comics.
I can only write what I feel and know to be true. I miss myself too much to be in exile ever again. I will sit at my own campfire and howl at the moon. I will prowl the landscape of the bereaved, filling my belly with sweet memories. When I see my reflection in a clear lake, then will I at long last recognize myself.
Words arise like mist and saturate the page. Drenched in the waking dreams of life, I nevertheless ride in an elegant elevator up to the floor of Cancer Wellness to take Tai Chi. A brave soul returns to class, her hair just growing back, her eyebrows sprouting forth in wonder. Ah, the friendship of those in the fire is sweet indeed. I touch the downy softness of her head. She stands still and offers no resistance.
Just so, I venture forth here to ask you to touch my words so that they might guide you to your own inner wildness. We wolves must stick together.
Author, Life With A Hole In It