There is a part of me that wants to be controlled, measured, predictable choices and responsible ways; I have believed there is safety there, no offense too large, staying under the thin line of expectations that will cover the most social rules. Clean, less need to reflect and reorder what I did, what I said.

All my conversations prepared for, the right balance of talking and listening, the well placed lines received with well worn laughter, ever polite and distantly kind.

Each time I spend with someone will prove who I am, what I’m like, and show how much I have worked to deserve this space.

And then there is a part of me that wants to be wild.

I want to choose messy and laughing and loud, and even if it means I will be a little sick, or tired, or will spend a little bit of the day after the night before hoping I was with people who understand wild doesn’t mean wanton and it doesn’t mean unpredictable, irresponsible and out of control. Then, suddenly, I know something I didn’t know before. Being wild means being wild in a wordless way.

I don’t yet know how to live so howling to find my pack doesn’t leave me breathless, but I’m close.

Is there an understanding we could come to, each of us, that we do not owe each other our predictability? That seeing the playful is a gift we give each other in the moment only, it isn’t held and recorded to our shared file of understanding of who we are, it is who we were for that moment, that carefree trusting moment.

The best gift I can give you is to forget you, over and over and over. And then to meet you again, and again, and again.

Ever new, ever wild.

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