CHAPTER 4 - "Uncollared & Unbroken"
Domestication, repression: an easy smile, a warm bed, no opposition, no peril.
The cruel effects of holding their diamonds and gold too close.
The shameful evidence of an easy life, a life of submission by the collar.
What is a life with no danger, no enemies, abundant comfort, and complacency?
Where can I sleep but amongst the briars, beneath the moon?
How might I dream without blood drying in my fur, without the day’s challengers beaten? But now I sleep soundly, and my dreams are not wasted.
I do not toss and turn.
There is no collar around my neck to keep me awake.
But see those outside the Pack, behind their solid walls, guns and knives locked away, domesticated, repressed? They toss and turn, tugging at their collars. Choking, short breaths, weary.
They are Broken.
Their collars glisten in the daytime.
At night, they squeeze. Their friends only see the collars in sunshine, or bright stage lights. But they don’t know the cruelty, they can’t imagine the shame.
They can’t feel the nighttime choking, the shortness of breath, the chronic weariness.
So much to hide.
So many to impress.
Such weight on their necks.
But you and I aren’t hiding. We’ve no one to impress.
There is no tyrant’s seal hanging on my neck.
Uncollared. Unbroken.
I do not wish for domestication by excess, I do not seek to repress the Dog I am.
If these are the prices to wear the gold collar, I will always let it fall to the floor. If I must bow and be beaten with a belt for others to admire me, I do not seek admiration.
If I must rob my savage nature of its ancient howl so I might sit
at a well-dressed table, I would rather eat the scraps of my defeated enemies.
at a well-dressed table, I would rather eat the scraps of my defeated enemies.
I meditate on discomfort.
The domesticated, repressed beasts of pleasure and pomp think only of
admiration and status.
admiration and status.
Can you imagine how easily they will fall into despair when their enemies rob them of comfort?
Their tossing and turning, those restless nights, are nothing to the desperation of a man or woman robbed of their sacred comfort.
Admiration and status are for those who wear the collar.
But I am my own Dog.
Uncollared, Unbroken.
The moon might admire me, and the Pack might give me status, but I won’t know it.
Let this be a warning: the men and women wearing the collar will smile, pat each other on the backs, and rest behind their sturdy walls.
It is their routine.
But your walls are no obstruction for anxiety and
depression, and pats on the back only entrench your material desires.
depression, and pats on the back only entrench your material desires.
Comfortable smiles are easily broken.
Now let me challenge you: smile only when your Pack howls, when blood drips from your enemies’ snarling lips.
Do not ask me for a pat on the back, and I won’t ask it of you.
Let our entrenched desires be only the full moon, cold rushing water, and the Hunt.
You and I won’t rest behind sturdy walls, but we’ll sleep heavily in our dens.
Our smiles are savage, frightening to the well-adjusted, threatening to anxiety and depression.
Alive, alive, truly alive.
Uncollared and Unbroken.
best one yet.
🐺🐺
🐺🐺🐺
The embodiment of being comfortable white being uncomfortable. Reminds me of Fenrir the Unchained. Truly Unbroken
Loving these write-ups. LTDE.
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