I stand among wild trees and barbed fences. This is a wilderness for which schisms have been built, for which concrete meets soil and heartbeats kiss silence, for which crimson signs that cage bind leashes around necks.
I stand among wild trees and barbed fences, and my god, I can feel the electricity jostling my veins. "Incarceration, begone!" I say, for lock and keys and shadowy trees do not scare me anymore.
I stand among wild trees and barbed fences and I see war ground.
Brighter months have seen the light of day and I confess hitches have been met along the way. Often touted by myself as an idealist, I have tried endlessly, when the cold wind blows my way, to embrace it as fate with grace. I have come to realize, though, after earthquakes and tsunamis and thunderstorms, that to live with the cold and with silent revolt is to live like the tragic fool of a pathetic martyr.
To adapt and to make do and to carve one's own way, however, is a whole 'nother story. It isn't romantic, more so an instinct -- like that of a forest child's aptitude to strike -- but also one that has been suppressed for fear of shame.
It is finding home despite the wreckage of a house, beheaded stuffed toys and broken picture frames; it is letting go despite tenacious lunges of attachment, red-drawn swords and dagger-stricken spine; it is breaking through barriers in spite of fear like the relentless soldier who ain't goin' down without no fight.
I stand among wild trees and barbed fences and decide that leashes just aren't for me.