It is a large animal. It walks on all fours. It is walking on a path through the jungle forest. Not much of the animal can be seen through the dusky light. Its body moves like a shadow. In the twilight, all that can be seen is the black movement.
As it walks, it moves its head from side to side emitting a low growl. The creature waits impatiently for an animal to cross its path so the growl can rise to a roar as it first terrifies then devours its prey.
I feel myself as the creature walking through the jungle forest tensely poised to lash out at whatever crosses my path. But nothing crosses. Nothing stirs. I am angry at a foe that does not show its face. I am aware that the foe may no longer even exist. But that does not abate my restless searching, straining to find the one who hurt me in the past.
In frustration, I let out a growl louder than I intended. I do not want to scare my enemy away. But the disappointment of not finding them is almost more than I can bear. I resolve to growl more softly as I return to pacing the circular path.
Sometimes, a rabbit leaps out. My anger peaks as I lunge, giving my rage full force as I pounce—only to discover it was just a bunny. I don’t want to eat a bunny. I want to destroy my enemy.
Later, I come to a fork in the path. To the left, I see a claw mark indicating which direction I followed the last time I came this way. I claw a new mark as I move to the right.
Quite far down the path, I come to a sign. “Tahunda,” it says, “you’ve been this way before. Your enemy is dead but you keep forgetting.” I shake my head and shaggy mane in barely controlled frustration. I remember that the sign is right, but I am too angry to keep remembering.
I growl and pace on still looking for my enemy. I have already forgotten the words on the sign as I am too busy watching for movement.