The Howling Becomes Me

The battle for sanity is constant. Nowadays upon waking I catch a glimpse of the void’s feral jaws snapping just before I will the teeth away with gumption and brace myself for my eternal war within. The fight is my age-old beast, one I’ve known since my first recollection of touch. I think the very first thing that I ever truly felt was the caress of this wolven thing’s impeccable howling… It’s driven me mad all my life. I’ve known death in an intimate way because I used to conjure that reaper so grim forced out of purity so harshly I wanted nothing more than to cease being. In the darkest of times, when I felt that my soul would vanish wounded once and for all into the black howl inside, a new wolf the color of tomorrow would appear champing, furious, to devour the sorrow.  The only beauty I know is that moment when the wretched turns into paint and the raw becomes a melody, my only weapon is the reverie of a mind held fixed betwixt worlds. In the communion of dream and expression I am not tortured by the howling for that is when it becomes me.