Being Feral

I wish I could impress upon you the notion of the stars curving round to meet the sea. It's something dark, delicate and hopeless. They can't even communicate because as magical as they look from the window of a flying tin can, they are just inanimate substance. To state the obvious. This hopelessness that I feel towards the direction of our kind can only be cured, albeit temporarily, by remembering that there are some things that we can know, innately. We know that happiness and contentment are wonderful. The knowledge that love, true love, is paramount. For family, friends and lovers alike. What other emotion is as inexplicable? Yes, there are plenty that are so strong that they can honestly kill us, lift us into the sky or render us somewhat impossible. But you tend to be able to use some smart little metaphor to explain those ones... even if it does belittle the notion entirely. But that love you can have for another human being is, as I say, inexplicable.

When all else seems dark and we cannot see, we yearn for the light. Even if that light is balanced temporarily and woefully at the tip of a match. We turn it upright so that it burns, not matter how pitifully, for as long as possible.

So, I regularly describe myself as feral. I use this word instead of wild because 'wild' has become associated with something desirable. I think perhaps I would be a little more content if I didn't view the world in the way I do... but I also think that would make me a fucking idiot, so who knows. Sometimes, a lot of the time actually, I just sit and listen to what people aren't saying. It's far more interesting than the drivel that is gushing from their mouths. I can't really explain that either. But people are either scared or blissfully uncaring, or both. Some people just have the strangest priorities, but then again, I couldn't begin to tell you what the right ones should be. I often look at society and find it illogical and ridiculous. It's not what we were created to cope with. We as a species, have done it all wrong. It makes me feel claustrophobic, and every time I feel like that, I find myself running as fast as I can towards any form of nature. And that reaction is as innate to me as survival really ought to be to most.

But if the popularity of MacDonald's is anything to go by, survival is an innate notion lost on billions.

When I think about the things I know innately and often against my will it makes me wonder. Either I know something you once knew or in fact have never known, or I'm the ignorant one and you know it all.

When we live in an existence where even our questions are questionable, and the ground to cling to can be torn from heart and soul in the space of a second, surely that means we can only find sanctuary in the immaterial and inexplicable? I find, as soon as something can be explained, it no longer belongs to us. Because where do we draw the line between imagination and ambition? Right now, they are just shapes on a page.

When I struggle most, it seems to directly correlate with a lack of love, for and from those around me. It turns into a disconnection, a realisation that due to a series of potential coincidences, you know these people. A flip of the coin, a different hand, an alternate role of the dice, and you might never know them. And you wouldn't even have missed each other, because how can you miss something you never knew?

 So the disconnection of us as people, as creatures just drifting in various directions does nothing for me, other than press upon me the importance of making those connections, of falling in love with as many people and as many places as possible.

The heart is meant to be used to the maximum of it's capacity, in every stretch. Whether it's fluttering skywards, getting wrung out like a tired old flannel or being pulled out through the bottom of you stomach by an enormous magnet. At least when you die, know that it's been worn out.

Because honestly, what else can we do with it?
I don't know nearly anything really.

So who am I to even begin to wonder what it is I fear on a nightly basis?

Sleeping shouldn't be difficult. I blame the lack of air, the blind beating the window, the little box I have to call mine. I'd like to go back to the wild please. At least I know what's there is real and doesn't care whether I'm there or not.