Don’t feed it.

Dwell. Wait. Lie.

Lie in wait to dwell.

The stretch of breath, creating space where spaceless.The hunted feeling of tomorrows. The gasping yawning chasm of undefined.The empty purpose pouring into industriousness

Is it the heart that really feels? Is it? Or is it the brain so conditioned to know the very thing that is to be its best and worst knowing.

A pre-defined plethora, etching to stuff the caldera to the periphery.

The big black dog grows heavy with contentment.
He feeds on the very qualms that drives you to invite him in in the first place.

Intent for a walk along a path, the black dog waits in earnest for a moment when you are distracted and leaps into the woods bounding after a seemingly empty wood.

The wood is far from empty, with fears a feasting, doubts a dancing, lethargy lounging, self loathing a singing. With each step you try to resist – but the pull is great and the big black dog takes you to the warmth of the forest where the creatures of the wood take you in their arms.

The path is in sight, but the energy is emptying and the heart is hardening and sinking into the hole of despair that is an abyss below your feet.

The path gets dim and there is only the dog, leading you on so you clutch at what you know as your light gets dimmer and you can only move for the big black dog is leading you.

The extra ordinary strength it takes to yank the dog from his endless stride into the forever blackness blurring your eyes is exhausting.

The only saving grace is the giant hand of comfort delivered through the endless satiation of the addiction pulsing through your very being. The addiction of variable nature, halting the dog in his tracks, teaching the big black dog to sit.

But more importantly the hand teaches him to play dead.

Good boy.

black-dog
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