Flipa Media
In the marrow of my bones, there's this relentless yearning for something more—something unnameable, ineffable. It's like walking through a world cloaked in grayscale, then stumbling upon a fissure that bleams with raw, untamed hues. That's what wildness does to you. It doesn't just nudge you; it wrenches you back towards a truth you've forgotten—the truth of being whole, of being undeniably, irrevocably complete.
Out there, amid the snarl of thorns and the whisper of leaves, I find a mirror to my own tangled soul. It's a brutal, beautiful reminder of my humanity, of the invisible threads linking me to this earth, toeach pulse of life that thrums beneath the soil. Wildness doesn't care for the facades we build, the masks we wear. It tears them away, baring us down to our raw, unvarnished selves, forcing us to confront the notion that perhaps, in our mad rush for separation, for individuality, we’ve lost sight of what truly binds us—not just to each other, but to the very essence of life itself.
It's in the wild that I laugh in the face of my pretensions, where my ego dissolves into the mist, and I stand, stark and humble, under the vast canopy of existence. It's where I remember that to embrace my humanity is to embrace a kinship with the wild, to acknowledge that in this dance of life and death, we are not mere spectators but deeply interconnected participants.
And so, the wild calls to me, to us, with a voice that is at once a roar and a whisper, urging us to return to the fold, to rediscrete ourselves into the tapestry of life. Not as separate threads, fraying at the edges, but woven together, strong, complete, whole.