I hate safaris. This feeling had been growing on me for years, and until recently, I ignored it. For what purpose does it serve? I live in a city isolated from anything remotely close to a safari, and, short of the zoo, animal watching is only achieved by the infrequent run in with a small bird. I believe, however, that I can not ignore my indignation.

There is something beneath my psyche that continuous to breach the depths of my sub conscious, running the show for short periods of time. A thin veil of guilt will cloud my senses, and there must be a reason, there’s always a reason. For no man can hide from the power of his own mind.

I think…I think I figured it out. Evolutionary psychology plays a role, doubtless. At first, I thought I felt bad for the animals, but my anger is deeper than that, it must be. You see, I pondered, convicted, appealed and pondered again, but all along the answer was right in front of me: I desire to be an animal again.

Animal I am, city dweller I am not. But a slave to the concrete mass I have become. Turn the dial back 4000 years and humans lived within the food chain. Today, humans live within the World Wide Web. I do not feel angry after all. I feel like a modern painting in a classical museum: out of place.