I have become a somnambulist. I awake in the wake of my journeys: the pile of bedclothes heaped upon the floor, the dirtied feet and matted hair, the bedside rug freshly peed on, the bedside table toppled, the sliding glass door standing open, woods dirt and leaves tracked inside.

I do not remember my journeys. Sometimes I awake tired headachey with the fog of my journey lingering round my brain. Sometimes I feel vital and empowered and like I can accomplish anything. I imagine on mornings like this that I tore off my clothes and ran through brack and brambles. That I feasted on fowl caught with my own hands. That I howled with my friends at the full moon or the new moon – whichever one has called me out of the complacency of sleep.

I feel this in my bones. I have flown. I have traveled beyond the known universe. Because my wild nature has demanded this of me. The darkness beckons me to celebrate the death and decay of all I hold near in waking moments.

I have cast off the domestic bonds that hold me to the ground in my waking life. My inner knowing guides me. I answer to no one outside of that.

I am free.

I have become wild. I am a somnambulist.