Moons and Werewolves
“Another werewolf thing. Like most animals, we spent a large part of our lives engaged in the three Fs of basic survival. Feeding, fighting and… reproduction.”
― Kelley Armstrong
Or might we (I — because it’s my favorite word) say: fucking.
We feed on the energy consuming us, granted to us from the heavenly skies above, as we feel the urges to eat and feast and grow and strive. We feed on our passions as we cultivate our dreams into realities. We feed. We feed. We feed. As if inhuman. As if like werewolves.
We fight back the urges otherwise suppressed to be more, have more, want more, love more. We fight for ourselves and also, for others. We fight until our bleeding hearts are no more, as if ripped apart by werewolves themselves. Are we the werewolves, fighting ourselves until our clothes are ripped into oblivion, alongside our earthly thoughts and tendencies?
We fuck until our bodies grow numb, filling ourselves with the void of having lost love and hoping to find it via the only means we deem necessary. We cater to that urge inside us as we partake in this act that is all too animalistic yet also so humanly powerful and passionate and, well, pleasurable. We fuck like the werewolves trapped inside us, screaming to be let loose the way a howl exits a wolf’s snout on instinct, on survival, on dire need.
And so it’s the full moon tomorrow, and the crazies are about to come out of hiding. Or maybe it’s when they face the truth that they’ve been crazy all along. We’ve been crazy all along. We are animals after all, right?
We humans soak up the rays of the moon’s beam until our clothes are tethered, scattered among the forest floors as our bodies leap from the cages of confinement society sets forth. We scream and laugh and yell and prance on all fours, as if werewolves (the monstrocities flittering around our bodies, minds, souls) are freed from the host bodies we otherwise find ourselves in which to be. In which to inhabit. In which to control.
Yet we never have control under the full moon, so long as we fall victim (or dare I say — fall prey) to the energies that sometimes seem too powerful to let flow through, unaltered and unable to be suppressed.
The energies are heightened.
And thus, the awareness cracks until all obscurities unmask themselves unto the world and then… unto our eyes.
We group ourselves into our pack.
We breathe violently.
We prance around naked, under the glow of the midnight skies, illuminated by the stunner of a moon.
We let the tameness disperse as the chaos ensues — no, envelops — our entire essence. Our well-being. Our intentions.
Werewolves were never meant to be scary, nor fierce, and yet they are. Why?
Because we are the werewolves.
We are the werewolves.
We let our guards down just slightly — ever so slightly — as the moon unshields its full power unto us on the 28th day of its cycle, unmasking its fullness in energy, in absorption, in control. And those of us who aren’t prepared (as if we can ever fully prepare for such a miracle), suffer internally so greatly as our bodies are awakened from the exhaustion of the initial cycle of newness. We cannot cope with such a force to be reckoned with, so we act out, reacting in violent tendencies and harmful auras. We create chaos outside of us because it’s been suppressed inside of us for far too long. Far too long.
We become werewolves by instinct, surrendering all energies held within for far too long.
Until we unleash our hidden agendas, our unfulfilled dreams, our wistful thinking.
Is there an unless?
Why, of course there is!
We learn to appreciate the monsters inside of us from day one. Day one. We accept the dance that pushes us toward insanity, melting into the realization that insanity is the true version of ourselves. For everything in this world is fucking insane, including our own selves. We look in the mirror and see beyond the creature craving to howl, and instead, see the beautiful soul inhabiting our humanly bodies that only grow with each passing of the phases of the moon. We become at one with the moon, at all times, instead of shying away from it until the moon shines itself so full. So full.
We are the werewolves.
And that’s completely okay!
So long as we know it is that ball of energy (soul, if you will) that is us. That is who we are. That is the truth. That exists solely because of the moon. And with and by and through and under the moon, we begin to transform our passions into works of art. We recognize the importance of the waning and waxing of all energies in which we are surrounded, consumed, enthralled.
We are the werewolves.
So howl, baby, howl.
under the fullest of moons yet to come, as we feed, fight, and (you know the rest).
Natalie Maddy writes about dark inspirations, digging through the filth of the world to unveil its beautiful truths — in forms of abstract, fantasy, and bewilderment. She is the author of: The Reddest Rose Bleeds the Deepest.