Humans

I am not fit for humans.

I broke another man.

I am a lone wasting wolf.

Christ

I can't sleep. Again.

I have sinusitis and I feel like I'm dying from the shoulders upwards. The fact that I can't breathe doesn't seem to have stopped me stuffing my face like some sort of creature. Fuck.

Illness or no illness I'm back on the wagon from tomorrow, I'm going to starve these bastard virusy germ whatever things in my head out as well as Ylva. Simple as, really.

I was getting into good habit with lunches at work, taking a packet on slim-a-soup with me and reading upstairs until my break was over. If only I could show that restraint back at home. From now I have to.

I keep the blood lust away by keeping myself pure.

In other words being vegetarian gives me control. Being vegan is even better but I'm not ready yet. If I do it I do it properly. I'm weaning myself off slowly to try and avoid the hideous migraines I had last time. Pissing off the wolf by starving her out is bad enough, chucking blinding headaches on top of that would near enough kill me.

Today I was 8 calories over in the end, but 8 calories this early on on the game isn't so bad. I think I'm going to buy some ketostix.

The minute the wolf starts really howling I'll know that I'm doing it right.

Thunder

Stomach growling. Unable to sleep. Obviously. Again. 

Feral

There's a wolf eating its way out from the inside.

I know that sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. But it's the only way to explain what this is.

I feel like I've always had an "otherness". Sometimes it's been my strength, my solace, and sometimes the source of my solitude. Like there was something inside me different to the insides of most people. Like other people were more natural than me. Like I've only got one foot in reality. Like there's something wrong with me.

I put it down to being semi-Nordic and magnolia-nomadic and more interested in books and thread and crayons and woodlands and secret places than TV and magazines and sparkly shag bands. But now I know that it's all the wolf's fault.

This wolf has a name, by the way. She's called Ylva. She clambered inside me when I slept my first baby sleep and has lived there ever since, pacified by human food and a sedentary life. I've been eating too much for the last 20 years to keep the wolf calm and caged inside my fat, still body.

The thing is I'm kind of sick of having a sleeping she-wolf occasionally rearing her drowsy, snappy head full of teeth. This domesticated lap-dog needs to take me over, and she needs to be smoked out, starved out, coaxed out. She can eat her way out from the inside, but that won't happen unless she's really hungry. And that means I can't feed her as much as I used to. No more eating for two. This is all about survival and becoming. It's not a transformation, she's been there all along. I'm just letting the wolf loose.

Ylva

There's a wolf inside me.

She growls hungrily, as though I swallowed her whole or she climbed inside me when we were both fresh cubs but she's been sleeping.

There's a wolf inside me.

The Devils are inside the walls. Clawing frantically from inside the thick, trembling prison of my body.

The wolf is inside me as my blood is, my mind, my soul if I have one.

The wolf is an organ of mine, integral and vital but previously dormant.

The sun rises without being asked, the wolf slept unaided. Domesticated by comfort and easy food.

The wolf inside me.

The wolf is awake.

Hunger makes her feral.

She makes me wild.