By Courtney Quinlan
Wild is deliberately diving headfirst into the ocean, letting the cold salt consume you, letting it baptize you, without indoctrinating. Walking through the woods barefoot, digging in the dirt until your hands are covered in soil.
Wild is giving life and watching it fade away.
Wild is a calling from deep within, a biological calling to break free from societal chains.
Wild is freedom and love and lust and truth enveloping you like a gust of wind that pushes you toward the unknown.
Wild is the unknown, the fear, the excitement, the anticipation of what lies ahead.
Wild is owning. Owning your truth, your life, your labels, your strength. Wild is fierce strength, animal strength, the kind of strength that tumbles down on Mount Olympus, the kind of strength it takes to get up each morning and face the day.
Wild is using your voice for change.
Wild is standing up for those who may not be capable of standing up for themselves.
My wild is protective and fierce and fucking and free and truth telling, fortune telling, wandering chaos that settles around your feet like a fallen dress, like the dress you ripped off to show your nakedness, to show your bare form in all it’s wonderful vulnerable glory.
Wild is being who your heart calls out to be.
Wild is standing in your truth, no matter what it is, in pools that have tried to drown you perhaps, but you taught yourself to swim instead.
Wild is looking doubt straight in the eye and saying, “Fuck you, I got this. This is my story to tell”.
Wild is your story.
Wild is you sharing that story.
Wild is picking up the pen, touching it to paper and watching your fingers glide and make letters into words, into paragraphs that sit before you.
Wild is knowing that your words have been heard.
Wild is that howl, that primal scream I only release alone in the forest.
Wild is the calling, the calling that pulls me forward into life, into tomorrow and the next day.
Wild is my home.