Christopher Mccandless said that life is like a walk in the woods
on a cold winter night, in your torn up Timberlands
as you wonder each moment what lies behind the oak tree,
and you ask yourself if things are really as atrocious as you make them to be
because when you look at the deer running around in the frigid winter
skidding on icy ground,
with his ribs protruding and his legs embellished with bruises and his prized antlers fragmented
and his family’s heads being taxidermied
and then hung up in lodges over a fireplace
on a wooden board as a trophy for the kill of the day,
you begin to realize your prize possessions are all rubbage
and have corrupted you to the point where you forget to look at the things around you
and overlook the laboring ants
and the hungry chicks who have lost their mother in the blizzard
because your obsession with yourself made you ignore everything around you except you.