I want to touch dirt. I want mud squishing between my toes and the cool wind whipping over my naked body. I want to feast on wild edibles while I gaze at a sky so full of stars it hurts to look at them. I want my neighbors to have paws and fur and feathers and scales. I want any signs I see to be curiosities or raw materials and to divorce myself from the human concept of time. I want to not see another person for months, and even then they are on a distant hilltop and quickly flee.
So… you don’t want to touch the grass?
I want to touch dirt. I want mud squishing between my toes and the cool wind whipping over my naked body. I want to feast on wild edibles while I gaze at a sky so full of stars it hurts to look at them. I want my neighbors to have paws and fur and feathers and scales. I want any signs I see to be curiosities or raw materials and to divorce myself from the human concept of time. I want to not see another person for months, and even then they are on a distant hilltop and quickly flee.
So… a national park, then?
Even there the signs must be read and obeyed. Imaginary lines in the dirt that I must be aware of.
And they make me wear clothes.