Today I am dreaming of the hunt. Everyone always talks about the exhilaration of the hunter, chasing and finally attaining his prey, however cunning and desperate the prey’s attempts to escape him. We see the hunter as an artist. A student of the finer points of barbarism. The hunter, according to my perception of Western iconography, is the savage directed. The taste for blood made a matter of intelligence and acumen, a matter of competition, and thus made respectable. Even noble. But I am not dreaming of the hunter’s implications as related to society’s hypocrisies. I am dreaming of the hunter’s instinct. The hunter’s desire.
I am still running. I am strong and quiet and, it would seem so far, impossible to track. I have been caught before, but never held. Never kept. Actually, to be truthful, I have never really been caught. I have surrendered, out of loneliness, or boredom, I’m not sure which, but I have never been legitimately caught. And it seems I can always find a way to leave. Sometimes I don’t even try to hide and they can’t see me. So I am still running.
I imagine, sometimes, the day that I finally fall. The day I must push my heart to bursting, my stride full out, my wits at end. The day I do not have to surrender. Because I am taken. And the hunter will be powerful, perhaps more powerful than me, taking time to admire the blood, freshly drawn, on the trail he follows. Barely winded, ticking off my position in his head with innate accuracy, pursuing almost lazily because the conclusion is inevitable. Or perhaps he will be just barely my equal, and the hunt will be a mystery until the very end, when despite my fear and desire, I must break my silence and scream. Captured.
I imagine, sometimes, the day that I finally fall. In fact I look forward to it. It’s difficult to keep running so long. And dishonest, even dishonorable, not to. I will not give myself away. I will be won through deeds equal to or surpassing my own in bravery. In passion. Or not at all. Better to die running.