Unleashed instinct is not violence. Violence is a language. This is the silence before the first word. This is the wolf remembering it never needed the pack— only the dark, only the rabbit’s last heartbeat, only the mercy of not having to choose.
I dream I am running. No—I dream I am chasing . And the thing I chase turns out to be my own spine, unspooling like a tape measure across a dark field. “You measured this wrong,” I say to no one. “You always do.” instinct unleashed kind nightmares
These are the kind nightmares. The ones that tuck you in before they drown you. The ones that smile with your mother’s mouth and say, “You’ve always wanted to know what happens next.” Unleashed instinct is not violence
It is the midnight thought you do not finish. The hand that hovers over the stove’s red coil. The cliff edge that whispers, step closer, just to feel the math of falling. This is the wolf remembering it never needed
And here is the deep cut: the nightmares are kind because they never lie. They do not promise safety. They promise truth . That you could bite. That you could run. That the door was never locked— you just liked the sound of the key turning in your imagination.