Hunter

I am a hunter. Of a prey that does not bleed. It leaves no trace of it’s existence or claw marks on trees. It does not cry out when cornered.

Unfathomable depths, elusive as mercury itself, slipping into the pause, or caught in the breath of a scream.

Some days, I hunt joy.

Joy is the golden stag that flashes through the trees, muscles taut, breath sharp, antlers catching the light like a crown of fire. It moves with reckless grace, hooves barely touching the earth, as if it knows it cannot be caught. Not really.

But I chase it anyway, through fields of laughter, over hills of light and sound. I reach for it, hands outstretched, lungs burning. But joy is not meant to be captured. It is meant to be seen, to be followed, to be felt in the instant before it leaps, before it vanishes beyond the horizon.

Other days, I track sorrow.

Sorrow is the black fox at the edge of the wood, its eyes too knowing, too deep. It does not run. It waits, watching, tail flicking through the mist. I pretend I do not see it. I pretend it is not there. But it is patient. It is tireless.

And when I am alone, when the world quiets and the chase ends, it steps forward. It presses its weight against my side, cold and heavy. It breathes in the echoes of old songs, in the scent of forgotten letters, in the dust floating through an empty room.

I do not fight it. I do not send it away. I kneel before it. I let it tell me what it knows. And when it is finished, it slinks back into the trees, leaving only its shadow behind.

Then there is rage.

Rage is the black stallion, foam at its mouth, muscles coiled like a storm waiting to break. It does not wait for me. It comes for me. It barrels forward, nostrils flared, hooves tearing up the ground, daring me to stand my ground or be trampled beneath its fury.

I do not run.

I throw myself forward, hands tangling in its mane, legs locking around its sides. It rears, it kicks, it screams, but I do not let go. I ride it, I drive it, I pull it from senseless destruction into purpose. I force it toward the battle that needs to be fought, the barriers that need to be crushed, the chains that need to be shattered.

And grief.

Grief is the old wolf that does not howl. Silvered muzzle, lingering at the edge of the fire’s light.

It does not snarl. It does not bare its teeth. It only watches .

I do not track grief. It finds me. Always. Slipping between the noise of a day, when my hands are still, when there is nothing left to drown it out. It moves, fog through an open window, curling into corners I thought were safe. Panting behind the door that will never open again.

I do not chase it away.

Instead, I sit with it. I feel its breath, slow and steady, as it rests beside me. It does not leave. It does not soften. It is simply there . And so I let it stay, knowing it will never truly go. Knowing that I would not want it to.

Because grief only exists where something once lived. It is the cost of love that was real. It is proof that something mattered. It is the shadow cast by something too bright to forget.

And love.

Love is the most dangerous prey of all.

It is not soft. It does not tread lightly. Love is the lion watching from the tall grass, silent, unblinking. It knows I am searching for it. It knows I think I understand its ways.

And then—it moves.

Faster than thought, quicker than breath, it is on me, pinning me down, pressing its weight against my chest until there is no room for doubt, no space for fear. It does not ask for permission. It does not wait for readiness.

It demands surrender.

It does not ask, nor does it take. It simply arrives, moonlight through an open window, casting light upon the corners of myself I had forgotten to see.

And I do not fight it.

Because this is what I was hunting all along.

I do not chase them to own them. I hunt them to be them, to know them, to speak of them in a language that burns on the tongue. I wrestle them from wild places, press them against my skin, feel their breath against my throat. I know their weight, their power, their truth.

Some escape. Some cannot be held.

But I will keep running.

Because if I do this right, I will not just tell you of their existence.

I will make you feel them.

Because this…this…is what it means to be exquisitely, achingly, relentlessly human.

Emotion is not meant to be leashed, bridled, made small. It is not meant to be swallowed down, buried beneath politeness, tucked behind forced smiles.

It is meant to rage like a summer wildfire, leaping from tree to tree, devouring hesitation, turning hesitation to smoke.

It is meant to run like floodwaters, unstoppable, carving new paths where none existed before.

It is meant to rise, the first cry of existence, fierce and unafraid, the sound of birth declaring itself to the world.

It is meant to shake the earth, rend the sky asunder, vast and raw and real.

Let it rise. Let it take you. Let it pull you under, let it drive before howling wind, let it consume you, breathless, trembling, alive.

And so the hunt begins again.