Matter of Humanity
He trotted behind her like a puppy on a leash and she held on to that leash, half-heartedly pulling on it to remind him who the master of this relationship was. He lost the bravado, independence, assurance in one’s own god-given right to be right. She took it away as she tugged him along, through the streets of a bustling city, encouraging him to follow her way, her guide, her definitions of the crumbling world. Once, he used to laugh at the petty men carrying their wives’ purses in the plain sight of a million people. He laughed at the way their noses twitched like that of rats as the arrogant women commented, for they always had many comments, on the weather, and people, and the crippled morals of the country as they looked on through the glass at the essence of all evil, things. He used to think that this would never happen to him because he was a manly man, full of untamed ideas. But then, she found him during one of the stuffy summers. She took him in ,like a stray dog, patting him in pity. And at first he fought against that slimy touch, but soon he began to lean into the palm that ran its fingers through the wild brown locks of his hair. He could have sworn then that he was happy. She took away the troubles of existence, choosing to feed him from her open hand, not at all concerned that sooner or later he would bite her.
Then came the war. It didn’t bother him as he watched the clips of men and women dieing. But it bothered her. She sold him to the government. She sold him because her life was hers and his was his. They stripped him of the last dignity he ever possessed. They reexamined him. They whipped and shaped him into something resembling his former self. He lost the puppy air around him, becoming more of an angry mutt than anything. She didn’t write, not a letter not a postcard. Soon, her name began to decompose in his brain into strange syllables. And in the night, when sleeplessness gripped him, he tried to voice her letters, while being chained to the bed by the chorus of breathes, and couldn’t remember them at all. They left his lips with dull noise falling on the ground and shattering. They lost the beautiful tenderness with which he whispered them before when her eyes shone in the similar darkness.
He took the leash from her ghostly hands. He took the leash from the hands of the military. He took it all away in hopes of making things better. Call it spitefulness, but the dog sleeps alone, protecting the only bit of freedom it ever had, waiting for the hands that would be gentle with its leash, the hands that will show him happiness again. Call it spitefulness, but the dog wants to be a man again.
p.s. got a haircut, so now I can finally see again.
He trotted behind her like a puppy on a leash and she held on to that leash, half-heartedly pulling on it to remind him who the master of this relationship was. He lost the bravado, independence, assurance in one’s own god-given right to be right. She took it away as she tugged him along, through the streets of a bustling city, encouraging him to follow her way, her guide, her definitions of the crumbling world. Once, he used to laugh at the petty men carrying their wives’ purses in the plain sight of a million people. He laughed at the way their noses twitched like that of rats as the arrogant women commented, for they always had many comments, on the weather, and people, and the crippled morals of the country as they looked on through the glass at the essence of all evil, things. He used to think that this would never happen to him because he was a manly man, full of untamed ideas. But then, she found him during one of the stuffy summers. She took him in ,like a stray dog, patting him in pity. And at first he fought against that slimy touch, but soon he began to lean into the palm that ran its fingers through the wild brown locks of his hair. He could have sworn then that he was happy. She took away the troubles of existence, choosing to feed him from her open hand, not at all concerned that sooner or later he would bite her.
Then came the war. It didn’t bother him as he watched the clips of men and women dieing. But it bothered her. She sold him to the government. She sold him because her life was hers and his was his. They stripped him of the last dignity he ever possessed. They reexamined him. They whipped and shaped him into something resembling his former self. He lost the puppy air around him, becoming more of an angry mutt than anything. She didn’t write, not a letter not a postcard. Soon, her name began to decompose in his brain into strange syllables. And in the night, when sleeplessness gripped him, he tried to voice her letters, while being chained to the bed by the chorus of breathes, and couldn’t remember them at all. They left his lips with dull noise falling on the ground and shattering. They lost the beautiful tenderness with which he whispered them before when her eyes shone in the similar darkness.
He took the leash from her ghostly hands. He took the leash from the hands of the military. He took it all away in hopes of making things better. Call it spitefulness, but the dog sleeps alone, protecting the only bit of freedom it ever had, waiting for the hands that would be gentle with its leash, the hands that will show him happiness again. Call it spitefulness, but the dog wants to be a man again.
p.s. got a haircut, so now I can finally see again.