We are animals. We are meat.
We are human, not privileged. We are made to dream, to do, to grow old and die young as the wild men and women of this Earth. We are made to stare down our fates and reject these footholds and see what life is with the ones we love and cherish and believe in. In this world the strong feed upon the weak, and the ones who believe are the ones who survive the hunt.
In this world we are all animals, all beasts within the wild.
I am flesh and bone and muscle, connected together with joints and tendons and flowing blue blood, given thought from the soul, given life from a beating, throbbing heart. I am an animal. I am meat. You could kill me – tear my tummy out, rip my throat wide, gouge my eyes and peel my lips and dismember me arm to arm to leg to leg – for being weak, for being fragile, for lacking the killer drive that accelerated our race, our species, to our figured indomitable status … so what? So why? So what are we but beasts with opposable thumbs? Who are we but the communicative collective, this species with our vibrating voice boxes, our written languages?
The base lives within, deep in the stomach. There it curls and curdles and sours and calcifies, repressed emotions, bounded by societal constraints. The weak shall cry and the strong shall scream.
What makes our lives so special anyways? What is this significance on a life well-lived, on our days counted and measured and collected and saved away in a jar until we’ve lived past our needed hours, until it’s too late to enjoy the minutes and seconds and memories we’ve worked towards. The game, the race of the world is no place for the untamed hearts of these beasts within the wild. Domestication reigns king of the corporation, lays lover to the bounds of our numbered days. We scrimp and save and slave the weeks, leashed by chest and throat. We whine our way through the feed, slops in the troughs, and then retire to our beds with our lights and our lovers. Passion lies. Passion dies. Want not and you shall receive. Ask not and you shall survive. Fear and life will continue spinning on its axis, twirling through our nights and into our days. And all the while the beast sleeps, raging its wars in the dark of your plexus, dreaming of past lives and days when the little things mattered little, when the trivialities of humanity’s short, laughable existence were non-existent. When what mattered were family and food, and when you died you died. Beasts don’t die plugged – with monitors and buttons and charts and flowers and tubes – they go down howling, fighting. There are no dogs damned to house and home in the woods our fathers.
There are no lives worth living like the lives where we wake the sleeping beast. Where we rise screaming, thirsting, clawing for the world, fighting for the day. The world is at large. The world is missing these creatures of self, is leaving these inner animals behind. Bring them back! Rise up! Be your own master of this world, be the beast inside. Throw off this collar, bite away this chain! See yourself with teeth like nails and senses like swords. Go forth! Be the beast within the wild. Go forth and explore! Go forth and see and do and be not as you were trained, but as you were born. Be wild, be free. Be meat, and get cut. Be brave, and stand tall. And find yourself deep in the woods, thick among the trees, and full in the heart.