"Old friend, why're you so shy/ Ain't like you to hold back/ Or hide from the light" loops over and over in my mind.
Reminds me of my dog, now deceased. I feel my family and I wore him out with our catatonic lethargy, with our dull anger and soft cynicism. He could taste it in the air, he felt in our bodies as we brushed him, showing him the love we couldn't show each other. Treating him to the same rejections we gave each other, the same faded hopes for a meaningful end. It seems silly somehow- could a dog really see all of this? He never howled in pain or hurt, although the rest of us did. But on second thought, he did. He did make a lot of noise. We all made a lot of noise, but never learned to listen. So we became silent, within and outside of ourselves. This is such a quiet house. A quiet place does not equate peace. I think here it equates pieces, pieces of what was once whole, sticking to whatever they can hold on to, in hopes of one day graphing on. Burnt skin over fresh flesh, though, not the other way around.
No comments:
Post a Comment