This is just a storage of the raw

The mind is constantly changing.

Thursday, 20 January 2011

Mudhouse

"It is not well."

The new born dog named Charlie was having a heart failure. It could barely breathe on my hands. It was fragile and shaking. In a room, the bed was creaking with the movements of panic and agitation to the existing predicament that only has one fix, but cureless. There was only pity.

The three of us decided to call a former veterinarian - the only one we knew. With urgency, we asked for it to be operated. There was a sudden illustration of destination and forced hope. Once an agreement was established, we left it, attempting to forget.

Without the marks of it in our mindfulness as time naturally paced forward, barking was heard from the outside. We opened the door and it was there, waving its tail. It grew up, healthy and stitched, unrecognizable and persevering, unaware of changed assurances and precedence. Then there was a selection.

I woke up beside a cold wall inside a house filled with mud. The house was divided by metal screen - weak, hard, and threatening. There was darkness, but it laid peacefully sleeping on the other side.

I tried breaking the metal screen open with my body and finish the regret inflicted upon my leaving. After several use of force, it woke up gently and did the same thing on its side. It was mimicking my motivation, but not my remorse. There was neither in nor out to this filth. What I didn't notice was a breaking that created a hole on my lower right. Its presence was liberating and unobtainable. The routine was countlessly continued without thought and prejudice.

It was an obligation.

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