Dusky Husky

Dusky: noun. – A dust covered husky.

I’m running through a forest that looked battered to hell. Pines are standing proudly next to others that had splintered into as many branches on the trees standing around it. Some fallen over completely, some that had disappeared entirely. And some on its way down but stopped by the neighbouring pines still holding their ground.

The first thing that came to mind was the Siege of Bastogne reenacted by the HBO Series, Band of Brothers.

Everything is covered in a thin layer of white, while the white itself was still lazily falling through the air. At first, I thought it was snow. It was beautiful. Until I began to realise that it was too thin and too fluffy to be snow. My focus shifts to something closer as I’m running, and then I feel it as it begins to get thicker on my shirt, on my skin.


I’m still running. I didn’t notice at first, but then my focus shifts again to what I’m chasing. A dog. No…I’m not chasing, I’m following, as it keeps turning back to see if I’m still behind it. I see it barking, but I can’t hear anything. All I can hear is my breathing heavy, and deafening silence of ash falling. No birds, no animals, not even a sign of the war that had waltz through this place like a drunken man in heels through a china shop. Why this man would be wearing heels, I don’t know. But my theory/analogy still stands…even if this man in heels couldn’t.

The thickness of trees begin to lessen as I’m moving at speed through this forest. Funnily enough, there is a perfect path carved through this foliage of standstill madness. Winding as it goes the final tree line is past me before I know it, and there it stood. A small building in what seemed like a small village. This building was obviously either a café or a small shop of some kind. Long abandoned, and boarded up. Beaten and scared with bullet holes and timeless chipping of its paint on the walls. There were no colours of significance, as one would think in a such a small french seeming village. The colour palette of what I saw was dark grey, grey, black, and a dark maroon.

What seemed like should have been a beautiful christmas, is actually just a peaceful after-war of settling death. Everything is still like those post card scenes with a mirrored lake. I notice I had slowly walked forward toward this beautiful capsule of what was once a small hub of laughter and joy, the building that stands before me.

I turn around to see this dog, a husky, just staring towards the building, as if it had meaning to it, as if it’s owner once lived there, as if it was bound to get revenge on whoever forced it to flee from there. The husky is also now still as a statue, no longer barking, but at peace somehow. It is covered in a thick layer of ash as if it was a part of the layer coat it normally wears. And then I saw the only colour I had been able to see during this entire footrace; the piercing blue sapphire of the K9 cutting through the ash and grey, completely unblinking and steady. If those eyes could have said one thing, it would have been this:

“I only wanted someone to see what I once had, to see what I once saw, and what I still see now; home.”

I wanted to bend down and hold this husky as if it were my own. To let it, him or her, know that their new owner is here and wouldn’t leave like the previous one had been forced to do. But everything started to slip. The only colour that pierced the entire scene started to fade. The ash, started to fade. The building no longer standing there, but gone as silently as the colour black, if the colour black were to ever sound like something. And everything goes dark.

I’m awake.


Something stirs within me. I don’t know what it is. I can’t tell you what it is, because part of me thinks that it would betray myself in keeping a secret from my self, for myself. Part of me can’t tell you because I don’t know what it is.

I can’t tell whether it is anger, because usually in anger, I do something stupid without thinking. There is no thought involved and I end up in situations where I regret everything I am and do, and end up hurting someone I love. Or maybe even all of them.

Its not sadness because I do ABSOLUTELY nothing when I’m sad or upset. I just sit there and mope around for an extremely indecent amount of time with no productivity what so ever leading to even more moping sadness of doom.

This isn’t anything. But there is. Something is stirring inside me to get out. Something is growing and slowly beginning to become aware of its self and I am slowly becoming aware of myself. I am beginning to think of things I would have never thought possible. Feeling things I have never felt. Giving up, or more or less letting go of things I never thought I might in order to better myself or to better something else by getting rid of my own presence.

Something is dangerously lurking inside the pool of my imagination telling me I am nothing while telling me you are everything you need to be. For what? Only I know the answer to that. Will I tell myself one day, or when the time comes, or if even ever? I myself, do not know this.

All I know is, something is there and I can feel it. It is moving, and I can hear it. It is calling me, and I can’t figure out which direction to turn to face it.