The accountant saved by a wolf…

He was lost into screen, thoughts like a spinning top from childhood – around and around, but louder and louder. He was battling within his own mind…oblivious to everyone around him. He was at work, but not working, already knowing; he no longer belonged. Lost distractions in window, where ripples of sea shone teasingly through the subdued, light lost among greyed glass. He looked down and saw it, he was confused…he never knew it would be listed among his one day deathbed memories; somewhere in-between the good and the bad. Forever be changed, steeped into the shadow of his life.

At the same time he felt hope.

Rolling back to childhood – he had written a single poem, it was shortlisted then published in an anthology shared aside students; just like him. He had forgotten that past – for poetry was not cool among boys; not even if it was a poem titled “the cricketer”. It was lost within memory and all but hidden from friends – easier to not disclose, to hide the way he saw and walked among the world. Within the masks of acceptance; his equation attempted normality.

Back to that moment he felt hope.

It was yellow paper stuck to desk, his pen in hand still fresh; the nib warmed from use. Where did it come from? A question he has forever asked, but will never know truth – the feeling that still to this day evolves in each new answer. He gave up searching for truth, gave trust and fell deepest into the full surrender, a gratitude to Michael Singer’s words which invited him to Untether his Soul. Was it born of the trinity; God, Jesus, the Holy spirit. or was it born through evolution of dna pumping within vein.

On the paper was poetry of hope.

“be a wild wolf…do not succumb to the sacrilege of life destined by the sheep around you.” was the beginning of a message, an original poem scribbled upon sticky note. He doesn’t remember writing, he couldn’t have written it – but his pen in hand still fresh; the nib warmed from use. The feeling that hand had written the words was unmistakeable, “his” belief grew as further words bled upon the forever falling pages of poetry. The accountant saved by a wolf; met through metaphors.

@the_wildwolf became hope.

The saviour; “His” poetry.