"I never saw a wild thing feel sorry for itself." -- D.H. Lawrence
I have been peering under the sheafs of paper stacked about me, between the twining wires of my uber-lab, I have been searching for my fury, wondering,
fearing that it had dissipated into shackles and car payments and RRSPs.
I have been a wild thing, and I've seen them in you --
I have seen the recognition in your eyes e'en as you frown on Today's Latest Mania.
I have been a wild thing, streaming after my dreams, following the sunrise and straining every sinew for strength.
I have fallen, I have cried, I have worked until the tattered skin has peeled away to the glistening bone and I have cried "HUMAN!" amidst my cries of monstrosity.
I have danced as the gypsies dance, I have felt the bite of wind tearing at my cheekbones and lingering kisses in my curls.
And all these weeks I have been searching for my fury, betting on the inspiration hiding within it.
And all these weeks I have made the mistake of looking down, amidst the doubt that creeps up at me from the corners of the evening, whilst counting the bruises and listening to the pang of accusations
That I have grown cold as the wind that is my freedom.
And I have felt sorry for myself in the looking down.
And Friday, turning cartwheels down the office hall at The Accomplishment that was a week's late nights and lack of Everquest and friends and warmth
And as I pulled the smartcard out, in disbelief I pushed it in again, and I saw the chains I'd pulled about me in the place of arms and flannel blankets by the winter bonfire, dissipate.
And Friday evening, after strange victorian photoshoots, washing the jaundiced make-up from my skin and painting myself in ivory and crimson for the first night out in aeons
I donned my vynil and velvet uniform
And danced.
Inside, up two flights of chromed stairs
To music that held all the anger I've ever screamed to the alleyways
I hurled my neatly packed fists and felt the muscles shift
And I danced.
Not in fury, but in release.
Because I have always been a wild thing, and my fancy vacuum cleaner with the headlights and hepa filters is no fetter.
And I live here, in the midst of the bustle and routine that people have built and chosen for themselves, and with every pang I know it is their choice, and with every tear I remember, I know how many have been avoided.
And I don't understand it yet, I don't understand why it has to hurt
But I remember the glory of every bruise and triumph,
And I am no swan or slave to fashion
Because I wear my feathers ruffled and I remember.
I have never seen a wild thing feel sorry for itself, and I am ashamed, but I see the frozen bow and I see the falling
And I see your arms and I know that I don't need them, but I am grateful.