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

Encapsulated

Like a cocoon – I wrap myself in my ego.

It envelopes me in it’s assurance.

Tap, tap of the outer serpentine of jumble, silenced with the sheer impenetrable sport of shrinking.

The ego is a snivelling, writhing, engrossing monster.

The less it is fed the hungrier it gets, the more it is fed the hungrier it gets. I

t gnaws at your skull – it hunts those of weakness and carries them to safety.

The tiny box of filtered colour, flicking – inconsequentially past.

The ego feeds off it, it grows and grows and grows.

Suddenly you are eaten. I am eaten.

You are the pixelated periscope of pretty palletes. Apparently I am.

I amount to no more that a number of hearts, both on and off screen. Broken, scattered and tied in a knot. Not. Knots of tension. But is that anymore than what a heart is?

Is that not anymore than what the squeeze of love feels- a knot of tension, tied in a knot. Love is simply the ego being gluttonous.

How dare I – you – we think that loving another is possible.

When I am already so in love with myself.

The monster is hungry again. our-ego