On Not Being A Wolf

I have lived among the wolves, not as a wolf, but in their midst. At times, especially when I was a younger man, I thought myself a wolf. I enjoyed the camaraderie, the pleasure of the hunt, the communal howl at the moon.

But I was never a wolf, myself. My heart was always uneasy at the prospect of the kill.

As I grew older and perhaps wiser, and definitely slower the look in the eyes of my fellow lupine brothers turned from one of brotherhood to one of hunger. I was too absorbed in the maintenance of life to notice. One day, I turned my head to see the pack had disappeared from behind me...only to be seized violently by the throat before I could turn my head to the front.

I fought hard, fought with desperate energy born of sudden fear. I fought dirty. I fought ugly.

I became the animal I pretended I never was, all for the sake of survival. I became sick at the realization of the things I would do...to live.

Some have labeled me overly sensitive, some have mistaken my reluctance to engage for weakness. This I cannot control. I will not let that dictate my life choices, and the error will lie with them.

I run from the wolves not from fear for my life; I know I can survive contact with the pack, I have done so on many occasions.

No, I run from the wolves because I no longer want to be in the pack. I no longer desire to be the animal they need me to be. I respect the wolves for what they are...and in turn, I expect them to return the favor. In the meantime, I run, howling for myself and no others...