An eagle calls, and I awaken to a chill. 

The winter nears, it seems, as the coarse, unwashed hairs on my arms indicate by their standing on end.

My vision has become clear as my senses have declared my domestication senseless.

I arise from my bed upon the threshing floor the coyotes had abandoned the year before. The first sinews of sunlight are filtered through the breaks of the treeline.

A jagged horizon is now less visible in the fog which brings the cold.

I wipe the unwanted dew off of the carcass I had slain the night before.

Desperation has given way to bloodlust.

As I consume my frozen leftovers, I recall a vivid memory of a house.

My modern existence. My ease. My world on a platter. My dissatisfaction.

I remember the ease of survival, and taking my existence for granted. 

I remember hating my very existence.

Through my growing hair, my thickening skin, my calloused soles, and my shrinking stomach, I feel what it is like to exist. To know each day that I had lived another night. I am naked and utterly alone, The only music in my head is the sound of the flies finishing what I do not, and the juxtaposition of owls and crickets in the deep night.

Tonight I will make a fire, in the thin winds and dampening dew. It will be a difficult task, but it must happen. I cannot, and will not, fail.

Every sound in the dark thicket could be the last thing I ever hear. I must sleep knowing this. I must not strive for life as the weak do, but take it as I live it. I am equally as vulnerable as any creature I have killed myself.

I am terrified, yet I am hardened. My past does not matter. The future does not matter. All that matters is that I am living.

All this is a manifestation of dreams...