Prelude

You are an animal. 

You can smell fear. 

When you are backed into a corner, you cower or you fight back. 

Your pupils involuntarily dilate when you see something you like, and your eyes squint when you don’t believe what someone tells you.

You navigate the world through sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste.

Your body needs air, sunlight, water, and soil. 

Your skin is your largest organ, and your body is made to move, stretch, and rest. 

Your skin prickles and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end when you’re afraid but not sure what you’re afraid of. 

Your palms sweat and your pulse quickens automatically when you hear a loud, unknown sound, or when you sense someone walking behind you at night.

Your stomach growls when you’re hungry, and you get tired after you eat.

When someone holds your hand, you trust them and feel comforted.

When you sleep, you recover from pain and find solutions to problems.

You are where you are, and you absorb your environment. 

But you are built to walk and run, to explore new places, to tell stories, and to satisfy your curiosity. 

You seek safety, contentment, and connection with other humans. 

When you are in a place that prevents you from doing these things, you become a caged animal.