The dead time is dangerous, for then a lone wolf is a threat to itself. It's the waiting...for evening to come, for a new day to begin, for something to be confirmed or materialise, for some question to be solved, for a decision to be made or removed. The brain ticks and circles, the wolf, alone (and free), treads to and fro as if caged and bored by these mental patterns.
The skin underneath the fur itches in response to this restlessness and adds to the wolf's irritation. The animal rolls and scratches itself on the ground; the human roughly drags its fingernails sideways and up and down the same area for longer than necessary, and though this appeases the itch (and the others in other spots that follow) and suspends the futility of life for a bit the questioning returns once its over. A little energy has been spent, but still there's a whole reservoir building up which like dark heavy rain clouds threaten to break: to escape and flood the brain and propel the body to impulsive action. Nothing then ever ends well. Fades out to black. Or perhaps a fuzzy grey or vivid redness.
After, visible wounds will be licked and new hurts will be found. Hurts like regret and what was I thinking; why? Head dropped, tail down. And with vigour now at an all time low bed is the place to stay. Curled up with everything tucked in like a pup or foetus.
Sleep....For in death-like sleep strength will be recovered while the brain is able to remain mostly ignorant to its and the body's deeds, until the mind wakens and begins piecemeal to put those dream flashes together.
But when awareness is present, a certain vigilance is kept over instinct. The animal bides its time; the human, from necessity, has a list of checks and balances to override the urges a hunter has or uses other vices to forget, in a measured way: one pill, one drink, just enough to becalm or numb. Or even focus on another activity altogether. Something that the mind can be inattentive to or care about. It doesn't matter as long as it's engaged (partly or fully) with itself and the actions it commands.
What a real lone wolf does in such moments only a naturalist could say. Perhaps continues to feign sleep, in the hope some prey will come, with slitted eyes, or watches wide-eyed for other aggressors.
Animal or human, however, the lone wolf is not a natural member of a pack, having chosen or had this path imposed upon him. Should this be feared? A wolf acting alone is no more dangerous than a pack, and can even be less so if nervous or timid of the pack mentality, preferring to co-exist peaceably in its own way with contact as and when. Some lone wolves separate themselves for the sake of their health and the good of the pack, though both aloneness and grouping can be causal agents of disconnectedness: of wanting to belong but not; of feeling pressured to belong but not wanting to.
A lone wolf does everything at their own pace, in their time. In that, animal and human, a certain stubbornness is shared in independent thinking and individuality. They cannot be brought to reason; reason must be found through their own endeavours. And masquerading only works for a while, and can, if forced, lead to disorder and a depression of spirits.
Questions may be asked of others but their answers when given prove too confusing although the different perspectives and approaches to dilemmas is interesting, because within these outsiders there are sub-groups: those who rate freedom of mind above freedom of movement, and those who rate movement above mind. The first stay up on the mountain, whereas the second come down to explore.
Picture credit: Fuji Mountains in Clear Weather, 1831, Katsushika Hokusai
