As a child, I used to be fascinated with dirt, worms, and especially catching grasshoppers and bringing them home as pets. All of the things a 7-year-old should be into when they’re in the Second Grade. When my brother Jarold and I were little, we used to go into our backyard and water up the soil so we could make these endless amounts of mud pies. I loved the way it felt in my hand, being moulded and sculpted into what seemed to be my Mother’s worst nightmare. In the moment that my little hand could control something, I didn’t realize how beautiful this piece of mud really was. That, at that moment, this little piece of earth, meant to my 7-year-old mind, that I could control the outcome of this little marvellous piece of wet dirt.
Sometimes in order to build yourself up you need to break yourself down. One might need to deconstruct, go back and gather themselves in the shatters of their primal state, where instincts feel like nature’s course and the bloodline of your soul is redirected to rediscovering itself... again.
There’s a certain type of wolf out there who’s howl comes from the heart. It can be felt from miles and miles, it’s love echoing louder with every front. It’s the type of wolf so deadly, its silence kills. ‘X’ marks the spot(s) and the ‘O’ to every ‘X’ means been there, done that. Silence was every thought. It made you weaker and stronger, but from it there is a growth in resilience and a new form of endurance. A vulnerable voice so impactful it chills. The howl of this wolf’s got a strain to its DNA, and its called grit.