Last Night There Was A Dog

Last night there was a dog. His name was aimed directly at me. He was like a shadow on a painted grass and like a field of false strawberries and the falsehood of sweetness and the sweetness of a lie. A lie so sweet you can’t believe it isn’t true, you can’t take your heart off it, the smell so sweet it becomes yours. His barking was as soft as a hundred threads, so soft that I could feel a blanket of all around blackness and white around me, guarding me from that which I cannot deceive.

Last night there was a dog. His spear of deception was raised upward like the fence of a severe wall. Like the dream of a dying man his face crumbled and I was kind to him. The only thing I could do.

Last night there was a dog. And he poisoned me. He poisoned me dry, untill my very veins were dry riverbeds crawling inside my bones and the story of my lies. I resembled the honesty of skeletons and the recklessness of corpses, the good recklessness. The old story was told. The end kept forever untold. And untold were the answers of the dog I met, like he was then ten thousand feet away from me, he could not read my despair, he could not drink of my indecision and doubt. And I poisoned him too. My doubt was the reminiscence of years of questioning my own survival, my body ever vulnerable in a cold open peak. I believed so: I was not to blame.

Last night there was a dog. And I kicked it. Right there where his muscles met his bones. Pain spreading throughout his famine body like the fast web of an experienced spider, threading his destiny second by second. The future it isn’t there, it is. I questioned his priorities of his certain fate to which remained silent and forever hated me ever since.

POST SCRIPTUM

I did not die instead. Dead were the answers I used to have. Marked with red ink in the forbidden book of “Will Not Do’s”. I did so and called myself wrong, pointing my finger to myself, blaming me for my own suffering and lonliness. Gone were the years of ever reigning lightness. Lightness which I carried in my legs and in my thighs, I would jump the walls and corridors and that was enough. But thankfully I escaped the bitterness of “gone were the years...”, a bitterness which eventually would make me fallback only to rencounter my mistake.

The scream of a mad man

Trilha Sonora:

Baby Carni Bird, Camille

La Jeune Fille Aux Cheveux Blancs, Camille

Ta Douleur, Camille

Roteiro:

The Shamanic Way Of The Bee, Simon Buxton