wild. untamed. 

the truest part of their belying forms. when one stares into them, it is never sought, rather stumbled upon in that same meadow. alone, cold, but never afraid. the hare is waiting there, stolid. you never see its eyes blink. 

you are filled with tacit knowledge. bursts of feelings you have never felt. nobody has ever felt; they have no names. visions bleed into your eyes of what you can only assume are colours; not red, or blue, or yellow, or emptiness. you’ve never seen them before and they only give more of this unmarked, unwavering consciousness. it eats you and feeds you all at once. lives never lived, songs never sung.

 the colours flow away now, the visions and sounds implode until all thats left is the tepid flavour of cheap sherbet on your tongue, and the deafening gaze of the hare. its equanimity remains, but something in you does not. you are no longer the same as you once were. the hare falls back to all four and trods away until it is nothing more than a tenuous dot in your memory.