To the Waters and the Wild

Lovely painting by: John Bauer.

I used to be afraid of them, those grotesque blurs in the woods, those running forms,those hungry beasts. Fear would slowly find it's way inside me, slipping in the cracks of my spine's vertebrae, snaking between the gaps in my ribs. I was terrified of them, terrified of the Wolves of the World.

It seemed like a constant struggle, I longed to be brave, I craved courage, but at just the thought of those sharp teeth I would shudder. Even when I bid the lovely things to come and protect me, cottages in the woods, velvet hoods and baskets of sweets, I still felt so afraid. Why couldn't I banish them? They were haunting me, taunting me, and ruining me. Consuming me.

Perhaps the wolves were just wolves. Perhaps I had made them more than wolves. You see, I could hide from the wolves, but the real fears were always inside me. Wearing away on me, breaking me down. Sorrow was just behind my eyes, waiting to spill out. Would I feel numb? No. I would just feel cold and washed away. Everything drenched in RED. 

Alone. Alone. Alone. 

Empty. 

Lost boys in wolf masks. 

That's what I was afraid of.