These Few Beasts.

Bonjour mes amores, (girl look at you practicing your french.)

I think most humans are not nearly as domesticated as they’d love to believe. They’re not strictly the labels they’ve placed on themselves. They’re not French, American, Spanish, Indian, or Christian, Muslims, or really the list goes. They’re animals and it should be respected.

I feel like most parts of me are untamed; beasts somehow surviving past the inexplicable amount of damage that has been continously hurled toward them. Most of the time, I love that wildness. I love the wilderness that weaves its way through me; the places were I stand mystified by who I am.

But sometimes, I mean rarely, its too much. A little more than I can bear to shoulder on my own. Most of the time, I think my emotions enjoy wondering The Wilderness of Gabe; they’re content in their space, and not to sound too crazy its miles of protected land in my heart. They’re good. Its taken me years to allow myself the space to feel, and to allow emotions to come and go freely. Its dedication to determine what is worthy of most of your time, and find them little homes. Yellowstone would pale to the states of human growth, despite our insignificance in the totals of this realm.

I think though that most people believe once the establishment of these protective lands are built, that there suddenly becomes a depletion of moments where even that is not enough. Thats not true. Wild beasts, are still through and through, wild beasts. Even those who are untamed can have the misfortune of being trapped inside their chests.

I’m pretty sure thats what love is, what ambition is, and where the soul resides. Right behind the chest cavity, a persistent pounding against the inside of what you are made of; a pounding that would put the Tell-Tale Heart to shame.

My Love, my ambition, and my soul pace back and forth right behind where my ribs meet my sternum. Relentlessly throwing the weight of their body against my own. A beating that my own heart can’t take. Its like they’re waiting for permission to engulf, destroy, and heal every transgression that has ever had the unwarranted courage to cross their prey. It’s beautiful, naturally, but where there is beauty in the wild there is also brutality.

A love like that is never reciprocated. An ambition like that is never fulfilled. A soul like mine is not satisfied. There’s a consistent hunger; a consistent desire to pour out every ounce of my life in the “now” to feel whole for the “next.” Its a bad habit, in all honesty. But I am so much, that sometimes it feels like that there is not enough protective land in my body, to withstand the earthquake of who I am.

And where do these beasts go, when they’re released from their cage, but have no place to rest their desire? What happens when the earth shakes and it crumbles their homes? Do they die, or do they find holes to lick their wounds? Do the fault lines that build mountains I love, and the valleys I respect, simultaneously demolish and diminish the animals of my wild? Or does the earth cracking allow for their growth? The diversion, and evolution and habit expansion that rebuilds them into something even more wild? Something even more desirable and beautiful than they were. Something that men want to hunt but have no desire to keep.

Either way, there’s copious amounts of who I am. Sometimes it feels like my little body just simply cannot contain the contents of the things that make me. I think most people feel that way at some point in there life, even when they’re happy.

My best suggestion is to roam until you find the place where your beasts dont feel like they are attacking you from the inside. More often than not you will find the place that sits well within your soul. However, when the “not” comes, embrace those feelings of uncertainty because wild beasts are wild nonetheless. Allow the beauty and the brutality to consume what they need, because expansion never occurred without shattering. Dont neglect the grounds where you grow what makes you. Don’t neglect the beasts that aquire the things, that makes your heart beat voluntarily over the science. The things that make your heart aspire to beat over survival.

Faultfully, and t’aimer toujours,

Gabe