Untitled, Unfinished

Illustration: Sydney Hanson

There was an old black dog. He was not a kind old dog, he was mean, he was rough, and he bit.

I am not a particularly happy person, I never have been. Many times in my life it has felt as though I am in the depths of hell, suffering and toiling endlessly. This misery has haunted me for as long as I can remember, and yet it is in it that I find comfort. 

I met this dog when I was young, I knew little at the time, I thought all dogs were friendly and so I tried to pet him. That was the first time I can remember bleeding, he sunk his teeth into my hand. I don't remember the pain of the bite, I remember the fear in his eyes and the red blood on his teeth.

I enjoy writing. It is my primary creative pursuit and it brings a meaning into my life that it is otherwise lacking. This being said, I find it very difficult to write at times. Often it feels like I pull the words from my mouth like teeth in order to finish a piece, but it is not always like this. There are times when the words feel as though they pour from my soul and the words fill the page like the brushstrokes of an old master. 

 As I grew older I would see him, but I would avoid him for I still felt the ache in my hand. He and I would watch each other, I don't know what I meant to him but to me he meant freedom. The old black dog, free to roam, free to live, free to bite.

I am never more creative than when I am depressed. The words come easily and they feel right, and it is in these moments that I am most like myself. This is why I feel so comforted by the looming malaise in my mind. Happiness is foreign to me and I know that soon I will be made myself again through my sadness, and I know that once again I will be able to create. 

I was a young man when I encountered him again, he was always at the periphery, there but not quite, but now here he was in front of me. He did not growl at me, nor did he bark. He sat with me, and I with him, I enjoyed his company and the ache in my hand faded away. I reached to pet him once more, and once more he bit. The blood flowed freely, there was no fear in his eyes, nor was there fear in mine. I knew the pain that awaited me, I had grown to miss the ache in my hand and sought it once more. 

In the meantime, when I am happy, I stitch together the works of what feels like another man, one more creative, more poetic. I try to write about my happiness, about my normalcy but it feels insincere, and it makes me feel alien.

For a long time I had lost him, I did not miss the bad old black dog, I was glad to be rid of him. Then one day I felt his absence, I had felt it more strongly than I had ever felt his bite. I searched for him, I searched for the familiar pain of his bite, for I had grown to love it in his absence. I did everything I could to find him again, and find him I did. He sits with me now as I write this, his presence comforts me, for I am never alone as long as the old black dog sits with me. Yes he bites, but that is the price one pays for his company, and besides, it is with the blood he draws with which I write.

This paints a picture of me as some poor tortured artist but that is not the truth. For a long time things have been getting better, I have been happier. My depressive periods have become fewer and more infrequent but so too has my creative output. I enjoy my happiness but I miss the comfort in my misery, and I fear that someday I will really, truly, be happy. I look through my drafts, through my notes, and I am confronted by a hundred incomplete stories and poems. I fear I may never write again, I fear that I’ll leave it all unfinished and untitled.