The Wilds

I have a case of the wilds, guys. Everything is so shiny. All the songs are so good. I just want to stare at everybody. Everybody is staring at me. So. Much. Eye contact. I walk around and I don’t even need to listen to tunes to feel like I’m in some sort of music video. It’s like the wind is blowing into my soul through my skin and carrying me around. I come home late and I can’t sleep and sit out on the porch in the cold and listen to everything buzzing. Then I dream so hard, I wake up feeling psychically purged.

Everything everyone says is either the most interesting thing in the entire world, or it’s like I can’t understand them. I’m not hungry not hungry not hungry STARVING. I’m afraid to drink coffee because I’m already so keyed up. I just want to put all my friends on this weird magic carpet with me and fly around town with them.

There’s a young woman carrying a book that’s still in its opened Christmas wrapping and an old man grinning like he’s waiting for someone to take his picture and I feel like I’m made up of strangers-- the ones I know and the ones I don’t and the ones I will.

Guys, the wilds aren’t forever, but they are a sometimes-kind-of-awesome.