Sense of Yearning

I often feel like a wild animal who is in the care of a private collector ... I was born under a roof with heating on a cold winter night, I was born in a soft blanket and taken care of well,

I was to be raised under a roof with tender care, medicine, and food ... I was raised to be a good dog, I understood this. I have no illness towards those who saw a dog and took care of my fur and made sure my stomach was full,

Yet, one day as a growing pup, I was allowed outside for the first time, I no longer was under that roof and I was able to lock eyes with the moon, stars, and vast black sky,

I would sharply inhale and feel how it tasted like the cleanest water I ever had the pleasure of breathing, how vapor danced when I exhaled, painting the scene. That's the first time I felt a true spark underneath my paws, my heart raced, I yearned so deeply to explore ... but I knew the warnings of the wild. I am a good dog I did not run away

Yet, nothing was ever the same for me again.

It became a routine. I would step outside, breathe the freedom presented to me, and go back inside. Each daydream, each urge, each feeling felt stronger, more vivid, more wild as the days passed,

I remember one night I would sit down and watch the stars, clouds illuminated by the moon's light slowly pass by, I would think,

The wild is wild. I am not. I know the dangers of illness and disease that'd put me on the spot. I know of the claws, the teeth, the fight, and yet I still can't ignore the way my heart begged me to run, to disappear into the night. I knew of the bloodshed, the hardships, the hunger and drought, and yet I could still imagine myself being out there, under nature's mercy, devout. Despite knowing I would die in the winter's brutal cold, I still yearned to suffer, to fight, and to live, to be bold.

Then I knew. I understood. That's when I would walk inside and take a real look at myself and look myself directly in the eye ... I knew I was no dog. I grew up as such, raised well, yet directly looking back at me was a wild beast,

I was plump with warm food and my fur was well groomed, I had rested eyes, and I was warm in the winter's air. I had everything anyone could ever need and yet, why do I still yearn for the worse of the worse and hardships that carry out in the woods? In the mountains?

Why am I more content with the thought of dying in the grass, bleeding out after a lost fight, dying to illness, dying alone under the stars over dying in a warm wooden house? Why do I yearn for the chance to die outside over living inside where I'll be safe? Why can't I be happy with what I got instead of wishing I had less of a luxury of humanity but more of the natural brutality of beast?

Why is it when I look at my reflection, my eyes are the wildest attraction of the house?