There are days when I vibrate so high and fast (or rumble so low and slow) that I feel toxic and strained, so much so that any conversation or encounter becomes forever stained by my presence. Simple exchanges, never easy, allow me to off-gas, which is, I have grown to realize, a necessity. But what follows is a sense of responsibility and guilt for inserting drips and drabs of hopelessness and creeping death into the minds and souls of others.
I once had a friend who recognized this tendency in certain of our exchanges and told me then that he was glad he would be far away when I eventually combusted.
This wolf in my breast, aching to get out, to run howl dig roll scream and tear at flesh has never been well and truly released. Instead I have limped oozed and poisoned my way through life, adding locks to her cages and encouraging her instead to turn her fangs on me. Now she consumes me, and the pain has become quite intense. Eventually she will reach the end of me, and my carcass will bloat and explode and collapse in upon itself, a pile of bones skin and hair that will be, in time, completely unremarkable.
And she too will vanish.
The poisoned plains are littered with the waste and debris of others like me, without number, without memory, without note. Who have never found our time, our way; our voices never joined; our potential never met. Whose inner wolves of being will never be heard, felt, or seen again.
The universe will simply go on expanding and contracting, and in that vast expanse of time and worlds and realities, our sacrifice will have meant precisely nothing.