"I am the wolf."

I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.

I am the wolf.

I am he who brings back bones of Truth, Truth dug from the void of my imaginings. Or torn from the marrow of my emotions, from the living heart of lived experience.

Hackles raised, I rise up in howling defiance, tearing into everything the eternal Enemy throws at me.
Seldom am I faced with more than paper tigers.
Sometimes, though, sometimes the threat is real.
Sometimes we must go to war, willingly, and suffer the stings and arrows of our Enemy.
But even this I will bend to my advantage.

Even these bitter barbs can be plucked free and chewed on as sustenance. Food for thought, to feed the life of the mind. Given Time, every wound of war will hurt only as memory, will callous into yet another scar across my snout.
And I'm cool with that. She-wolves dig scars.

It's taken a lifetime, but I've learned to laugh. Even in the reeking jaws of death, even here, learned it the hard way. I know now to dance beside the grave of every brother taken too soon. I choose to believe their bones become rock, the rock I've built my home upon. That's how I feel about it, and if it's too raw for you then fine, but I am sick and tired of being apologetic.

I try hard to keep my prayers grateful, and I've tattooed their sacrifice into my core so I can never forget.
But it still hurts to admit how some must suffer so others may live. I wonder if that hurt will ever fully go away, or if it's part of what it means to be alive. My only answer is gratitude. Never forget them, never look away from the ragged lives of these millions, these unwilling martyrs. Never forget them. Never forget the sheep.

And I remember: once, during a long dark feast-time of the soul, she looked up at me and in a tiny voice she said "your eyes are so distant, so cold, like one who could kill."
True. But in an instant I can flood them with the love of a father, and the love of a mate. When I choose to.
For only I stand guard at the gates of my blood, and when I smile twin stars twinkle above my whiskers. I'm furred to endure the winter wilderness within, and so much greyer this spring, unafraid to pad through the maddening darkness like when I was a cub. For I was born with tooth and fang to fight off any shadow self arrogant enough to stalk me (try me, I dare you) 'cause I'll just eat them, and gnaw their phantom bones.

For I am the wolf.

And yet.

It's true, also, that for all these furious manifestos, even in the grip of my lust for life, the thing is, the truth of it - I'm the product of circumstance, just like every other wolf out there.
I mean I'm meat, I'm little more than the sticky sweaty mashup of every single moment that's made me me. Despite all my rage, I'm every bit as much a wolf of Wall Street as I am rat in a cage. But at least I've made The Stand, growled "Farewell, Mona Lisa," and spent my seasons in the abyss. I've been a S.T.A.L.K.E.R. of F.E.A.R., and even under pressure I'll continue to walk this lonely road (the only one that I have ever known).
No doubt, I'm somewhere I belong.

I no longer fear living their words as my own. As long as they ring true, that's all I ask. And nothing else matters.

For I am the wolf, and I no longer see as in a mirror dimly, no, now I see face to face: only after all these winters do I realize how I no longer know only in part, but begin to know fully, just as I've always been fully known.

For I am the wolf, the big bad wolf, I'm he who brings back bones of Truth.

 ...thanks to Aubrey Marcus for letting your light shine. The words and wisdom in your podcast are a constant source of inspiration. Keep at it, brother!

This piece was based on a piece he wrote, which was in turn based on the original piece by Alison Nappi


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