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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required There's some urge in me that makes me want to dance. Dance the dizzying spin of childhood again until I fall still, mimicking the lifeless on the grass and laugh with the scent of dirt and air and life. No fear of the unclean. Or the co-mingling scent of alcohol-laden sweat or the lingering eyes of intoxicated men. No music but the wind. This simple want is simple enough to mend. So the un-doing must be my vice. But it's unwanted and I'm thinking twice. What the heart wants is wild. Primal. Behavior is not a spontaneous thing, but a learned reaction. Like the fear of being seen for too far gone and past the customary stretch. I've been afraid. But nobody wins without starting the race for the long-haul even if it turns out to be a short spin. Nobody knows and that's the thing and the irony about what we know. If you want to taste the fruit you might have to risk falling from the tree. It's the anecdote of craving for the wild. And we all do. So there's that cliche "passion for adventure". I want to feed it what it craves and watch it spring up forbidden fruit undeterred. Uncontrollable. Bloom into a raging obsession that's dangerous. But it's a dangerous game, and it's all about the novelty of a thing. That's how I know the game is still wild. Right alongside our securities and self-inflicted responsibilities that take front seat to the natural methods we make to survive. And there's suburban housewives, and seven o'clock dinners in the bigger houses for the biggest winners. But we're never really cultured because culture's a lie. We're just reprimanded too many times and the sameness is weeded out through the television lines telling us stories about the difference that coordinates the violence. But people have to have their vices. A way to let out the wild hoping for ways that appear tame, if we give them a proper name just like our actions in the dark. Or the things we want to do when nobody's watching, and so we learn pretend games instead until the feeling is dead. Or expressed or repressed. And sometimes we joke about the urges. But it only gives the wild a different name.
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