I’m in Budapest, traveling further and further east, further away, sitting in café, watching people walk by on the street. I’m alone. I can feel it. I can feel my spirit lunging toward others, clawing out for some sort of connection; I can feel my eyes transfix on certain characters, certain types. Women. Specific kinds of women. I feel a desire, a need. I feel the craving of want in my body, this all-consuming lust, this emptiness like the pain of the world in my heart. The heart wants what it wants. The heart is a lonely hunter.
What’s your spirit animal? What’s your spirit? What are you?
I identify as a fox — the Disney Robin Hood character, the cute but cunning hunter, foxy, clever, ______ like a fox. I love foxes. Maybe the woman I seek is a fox. But maybe it’s not me. Not exactly…
I also identify with birds, all majestic and soaring. Wide wingspans, gliding over the ocean. That type — solitary or with others, but wholly graceful and free. But I do not soar. No. I only dream of flying.
I plod. I stalk. I creep. I analyze and stare piercingly. I think deeply. I sleep and I eat; I kill when I’m lucky. Even while I don’t kill, I’m dangerous, threatening. I know why the caged bird sings, but I am not caged and I do not sing. I snarl. I howl.
I am a wolf now. A lone wolf. Grey. This type is me.