When the wolf comes down from the highlands, it never holds its breath. Instinct dictates it must take in the warmer air – the fuzzy stench of valley life and dull scent of passive death – deep into its lungs. The adaptation is easy. The wolf does not wear masks. It simply becomes something new. It is not like the dog that howls at the moon with ineffectual abandonment. When the wolf cries, the moon listens, and the sun remains in slumber.
When the girl comes out from the woodwork, it never holds its breath. Instinct dictates otherwise, but the girl is wiser than her impulses. It does not fear the colder air within the foreign heights. The adaptation occurs. The girl does not fit the masks. It simply becomes someone new. It is not like the boy that curses the moon with trivial pursuit. When the girl cries, the moon cries with her, and the sun begins to shine
breath taking. Lets go cry at the moon.